She explained this unexpectedly to the Black homeowner while they stood near the new fence one autumn afternoon.
He was staining the cedar.
She had walked over carrying two coffees.
He stared.
“Is one poisoned?”
She handed him a cup.
“Still considering it.”
He smiled.
They stood beside the fence.
The brass monument remained visible near the street beneath a protective metal cap the surveyor recommended.
The woman looked toward it.
“I hate that thing.”
The homeowner laughed.
“I know.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“I mean aesthetically.”
“It is objectively ugly.”
“Good.”
“I thought maybe I was alone.”
They drank coffee.
Then she said:
“I resigned.”
He looked at her.
“I heard.”
“You happy?”
He considered.
“No.”
She seemed surprised.
“Why not?”
“I wanted a fair process.”
“Not your head.”
She laughed.
“Very dramatic.”
“You know what I mean.”
She nodded.
The homeowner looked toward the driveway.
“Are you replacing it?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“Good.”
“My bank account agrees.”
They smiled.
Then she became serious.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You already signed the agreement.”
“That’s legal.”
“I mean personal.”
He waited.
She looked at the hose coiled beside her house.
“I treated your survey like an attack because the result embarrassed me.”
“You accused me of manufacturing a property claim.”
“Yes.”
“You pulled up a survey stake.”
“Yes.”
“You sprayed the line.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The homeowner smiled slightly.
“You sure you want to keep listing things?”
“No.”
He laughed.
She continued.
“I was wrong.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
Her eyebrows rose.
He grinned.
“Sorry.”
“That sounded worse than I expected.”
“I know.”
Now she laughed.
The homeowner set his coffee down.
“What bothered me most wasn’t the line.”
She looked at him.
“It was that you decided what the truth had to be before the surveyor finished.”
She nodded.
“And every new fact became something you had to defeat.”
Her expression tightened.
Not from anger.
Recognition.
“The second survey.”
“The monument.”
“The old permit.”
“You treated all of them like enemies.”
The woman looked toward the street.
“Yes.”
The homeowner continued.
“That’s dangerous when you’re the person signing notices for everyone else.”
“I know.”
He stopped.
She smiled.
“You’re doing it on purpose now.”
“A little.”
They both laughed.
Then the woman said:
“I used to think changing my mind meant people would stop trusting me.”
The homeowner leaned against the fence.
“What do you think now?”
She looked at the brass marker.
“I think refusing to change after the evidence changes is probably worse.”