Chapter 1: The Garden He Left Behind
My neighbor tore up my lawn with his motorcycle and acted like it was no big deal — the next morning, a little "surprise" was waiting for him.
I'm seventy-one and have lived in the same house for nearly thirty years.
When my husband and I first moved in, he spent an entire summer turning our front yard into a flower garden for me.
He planted red and yellow flowers because those were the colors he always brought me on our anniversary.
After he died, I kept that little garden exactly where he made it.
Every year, I planted new flowers there in his memory.
They weren't expensive.
But they mattered to me.
Our neighbor's son came home from college at the beginning of summer.
He was twenty-two, loud, spoiled, and always racing his motorcycle down our street.
By fall, everyone in the neighborhood was tired of him.
For months, he had blocked driveways, revved his engine late at night, and ridden across people's lawns like the street belonged to him.
His father owned several businesses in town, and everyone knew the family had money.
Nobody wanted trouble with them.
Then one Saturday afternoon, I heard his motorcycle outside.
By the time I reached the window, he was cutting straight across my front lawn.
The back tire tore through my flower bed.
Half the flowers were crushed.
I stepped outside.
"Those flowers were for my husband," I said.
"He passed away."
The boy glanced at the muddy tracks and shrugged.
"It's just grass and flowers.
They'll grow back."
A neighbor across the street watched from her porch but quickly went inside.
The boy smirked, started his motorcycle, and rode away.
I didn't call after him.
I went back inside, closed the door, and made one phone call.
The next morning, I saw the boy walk outside toward his motorcycle.
Then he stopped.
Something was waiting for him beside it.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then looked toward my house in shock.
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What was waiting beside that motorcycle — and who did she call?
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