Get off my property before I call the sheriff.
“You glorified ditch digger, Tammy. This is my property. The wall you built is 12 feet past my line.”
She laughed so hard her pearl earrings shook. “Your line? Honey, your line is wherever I say it is. I run this neighborhood. Your little garden was an embarrassment, and I did everyone a favor tearing it out.”
“That garden was my father’s. He built it the summer before he died.”
“Well, bless his heart. Maybe he should have built it somewhere that mattered.”
I stood there in the Georgia heat, smelling fresh mortar where my dad’s memorial bench used to sit. She’d timed the whole thing for my honeymoon. Two weeks. That’s all she needed to bulldoze a dead man’s garden and call it beautification. She had no idea that every driveway in her subdivision sat on land my grandfather left me, or what I was about to build on it.