I didn't.
She claimed the structure reduced neighborhood property values.
Rachel sent one sentence in response.
"Please identify the provision requiring removal."
No response.
Eventually, Brenda sold her house.
I found out on a Thursday afternoon when I saw a moving truck outside.
Emma was standing beside me.
"Is she leaving?"
"Looks like it."
Tyler came outside.
He looked at the truck.
Then at me.
"Should we celebrate?"
I thought about it.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because someone's still moving into that house."
He nodded.
"Fair."
The following Saturday, Brenda drove away.
The pearl-white Escalade passed my house one final time.
She slowed.
I was standing in the driveway.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
Neither of us waved.
Then she turned onto Maple Street and disappeared.
For the first time in almost two years, Tuesday morning arrived without a crash.
6:15.
Nothing.
6:20.
Nothing.
6:30.
Nothing.
Emma came downstairs.
"Trash?"
"Already picked up."
She smiled.
"Peaceful."
"Very."
I made coffee.
I stood by the kitchen window.
The neighborhood looked exactly the same.
Maple trees.
Quiet sidewalks.
Freshly cut lawns.
Driveways.
Mailboxes.
Ordinary houses.
But something had changed.
Not the houses.
The people.
The new HOA board had become more transparent.
Homeowners attended meetings.
People asked questions.
Neighbors talked to one another.
The fear was gone.
Not completely.
Fear rarely disappears overnight.
But it had become smaller.
Manageable.
Human.
Months later, I was sitting in my driveway when Harold walked over.
He held a piece of paper.
"What's that?"
"HOA newsletter."
I groaned.
"Please don't tell me I'm violating something."
He laughed.