“Apparently.”
He sighed.
“Your wife would have fought.”
I froze.
“How did you know Camille?”
“Everybody knew Camille.”
He smiled.
“She planted the community garden.”
I remembered.
Camille had spent months organizing it.
She believed neighbors should share something beautiful.
After she died, Maya and I stopped going.
Harold touched the page.
“Linda hated that garden.”
“Why?”
“She said it encouraged people to congregate.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because suddenly everything made sense.
Linda didn't dislike Maya.
She disliked unpredictability.
Children were unpredictable.
Neighbors gathering were unpredictable.
Noise was unpredictable.
Life was unpredictable.
And she wanted everything controlled.
The next morning, I received a certified letter.
The HOA was calling another hearing.
This time, they threatened a fine of $2,500.
Rebecca read the letter.
Then she looked at me.
“They're escalating.”
“What do we do?”
“We attend.”
“And?”
“We make them answer questions.”
The Board's Mistake
The second hearing was smaller.
Only twelve residents attended.
The HOA president sat at the front.
Linda sat beside him.
This time, she looked confident.
She presented photographs.
My bicycle.
Maya's playhouse.
The patio.
A basketball.
A plastic pool.
Then she said:
“This property has become a recurring source of disturbance.”
I waited.
The president asked if I wanted to respond.
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Do you have evidence that these items violate association rules?”
Linda said, “They contribute to the problem.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She frowned.
“Do they violate the rules?”
She didn't answer.
I looked at the president.
“Please identify the specific rule.”
He shuffled papers.
Finally, he found one.
Section 7.3.
Outdoor structures.
I opened my copy.
“Section 7.3 applies to permanent structures exceeding six feet.”
The playhouse was four feet tall.
The president looked uncomfortable.
Linda said, “The principle is the same.”
“No.”
I looked around the room.
“Rules aren't principles. They're rules.”
Rebecca smiled slightly.
Then I moved to the next photograph.
“The plastic pool.”
Linda claimed it was unsafe.
I asked for the rule.
She couldn't provide one.
The basketball?
No rule.
The bicycle?
No rule.
The patio furniture?
No rule.
The president finally said, “Mr. Brooks, this is not a courtroom.”
“No.”
I closed the folder.
“But you are threatening to fine me.”
Silence.
Then I placed the police report on the table.
“Before this board imposes a $2,500 fine on my family, I want the record to reflect that the person making these complaints entered my property without permission and physically altered my child's hair.”
Linda slammed her hand on the table.
“She was screaming!”
“She was nine.”
“She was disturbing the neighborhood!”
“So you cut her hair?”
Linda stopped.
The room went silent.