The same amount the HOA had already reimbursed years earlier.
He stared.
His sister said:
“Cash it twice.”
“That’s not how checks work.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did not cash it.
He mailed it back with a single note:
The money was never the point.
Nothing else.
The Homeowner wondered afterward whether that was unnecessarily dramatic.
Probably.
He allowed himself one.
In retirement, he installed solar again.
Smaller house.
Newer technology.
Battery integrated into the garage.
And yes, an EV charger.
His granddaughter asked:
“Can I use it when I get a car?”
“If you ask.”
She laughed.
“I’m asking now.”
“You’re twelve.”
“Planning.”
“Fine.”
He gave her an imaginary authorization.
She demanded it in writing.
The family had learned too much.
One afternoon, the granddaughter found the old news segment.
She watched the garage door rise.
Reporter emerging.
Former HOA President’s face changing.
Then the famous exchange.
You don’t own the sun.
The granddaughter paused the video.
“Did she really say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s kind of iconic.”
The Homeowner stared.
“She was stealing my electricity.”
“I know.”
“But still.”
“Children are disappointing.”
She laughed.
Then asked:
“Why didn’t you just make the charger shock her car or something?”
The Homeowner’s expression became serious.
“Because that would have been dangerous.”
The granddaughter nodded.
“And stupid.”
“Yes.”
“And possibly illegal.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do instead?”
“Recorded facts.”
“Got documents.”
“Let her make her own choices.”
The granddaughter smiled.
“That sounds less fun.”
“It usually is.”
“Did it work?”
The Homeowner pointed toward the frozen image of the Reporter standing in his old garage.
“You tell me.”
She smiled.
Lesson absorbed.
The Homeowner thought about that years later.
There was always a temptation in conflict to become cleverer than the other person.
Build a trap.
Humiliate them.
Make them suffer exactly enough to feel what they caused.
But retaliation changed the question.
If he had deliberately damaged her Tesla, the story would have become two people behaving badly.
Instead, he had left the system safe and ordinary.
She supplied the misconduct herself.
Again.
And again.
The cameras simply remembered better than people did.
Near the end of his life, the Homeowner’s daughter helped organize old digital storage.
She found the folder.
CHARGER INCIDENT.
“Delete?”
she asked.
He thought.
The videos no longer made him angry.
The grant application looked almost primitive compared with modern energy programs.
The former President had been gone for decades.
“Keep one copy.”
“Why?”
“Family history.”