The Black Homeowner never used that one.
Mostly.
One afternoon, his nephew visited.
The young man looked at the patio.
His Wife told the story.
“One hundred three times?”
the nephew asked.
The Black Homeowner nodded.
“And you never towed her?”
“No.”
“Never blocked her in?”
“No.”
“Never let the air out of her tires?”
“No.”
The nephew looked disappointed.
“So you spent thousands building a patio?”
“Yes.”
The young man stared.
“That might be the most expensive passive-aggressive thing I've ever heard.”
The Black Homeowner laughed.
“Except we wanted the patio.”
“After she started parking.”
“Yes.”
“So she won?”
His Wife looked horrified.
The Black Homeowner thought.
Then smiled.
“She gave us the idea.”
His Wife pointed at him.
“Do not say she won.”
The nephew laughed.
The Black Homeowner looked across the street.
The former HOA President's SUV sat in her own driveway.
Sunshade installed.
Not moving.
“No.”
He said.
“Nobody needed to win.”
His nephew frowned.
“Then what was the point?”
The Black Homeowner leaned back.
“Boundaries.”
The young man waited.
The Black Homeowner continued.
“People think a boundary exists when you say no.”
“Sometimes it doesn't.”
He pointed toward the brick wall.
“Sometimes a boundary exists when no becomes physical reality.”
His nephew nodded toward the patio.
“So bricks.”
“Bricks helped.”
Years later, the city resurfaced the side street.
A public works employee knocked on the Black Homeowner’s door.
“We need temporary access near the old driveway apron.”
The Black Homeowner smiled.
“What old driveway?”
The employee looked at the brick patio.
Then at his plans.
“Oh.”
The Black Homeowner laughed.
They worked out a legal access arrangement.
Simple.
Written.
Temporary.
Professional.
No conflict.
That interaction reminded him how easy property issues could be when people asked first.
The former HOA President eventually sold her house.
On moving day, a truck blocked part of the street.
The Black Homeowner did not complain.
The moving company needed space.
They asked.
He said yes.
The former President walked over one final time.
She remained at the sidewalk.
“I’m moving Friday.”
“I heard.”
She looked toward the patio.
“Still standing.”
The Black Homeowner smiled.
“City hasn't changed its mind.”
She laughed softly.
“I deserved that.”
He did not answer.
She looked toward the white SUV.
Still hers.
Still immaculate.
“I finally sold that too.”
“Why?”
“Every time I looked at it, I got angry.”
The Black Homeowner nodded.
“At me?”
“At myself.”
That surprised him.
She continued.
“Mostly.”
Then smiled.
“Some at you.”
“Fair.”
She looked toward the road.
“My new neighborhood doesn't have an HOA.”