And after my wife, Danielle, passed away, Helen had brought warm, home-cooked dinners to our house every single Sunday for nearly six months, offering quiet comfort in our darkest hours.
That was why seeing her up on my roof, armed with a spray can, felt infinitely worse than discovering a stranger. It felt like a deep, incomprehensible betrayal.
“Helen, get down!” I yelled, my voice cracking with a mix of anger and disbelief.
She shook the paint can in her hand and calmly sprayed another panel, ignoring my plea.
“Call the police first,” she replied evenly.
“What?” I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Call them before you climb this ladder.”
“You’re destroying my property!”
“I’m stopping it from turning back on.”
Realizing arguing was getting me nowhere, I pulled out my phone. Helen continued spraying until the final panel was completely and irrevocably covered. Then she placed the can neatly beside her on the tiles and waited. She made no attempt to escape, no effort to flee down the slope.
When I reached the bottom of the ladder, she pointed downward toward the metal electrical box mounted beside my garage.