mentioned anything, Denise always had an explanation.
“Oh, I was going to clean that.”
Or:
“Wasn’t that already scratched?”
And my personal favorite:
“You know how kids are.”
Apparently, her children were responsible for every broken lid, stain, dent, and late return within several miles of our neighborhood.
Looking back, I should have stopped lending her things long before she asked for the mixer.
I know that now.
The problem was simple.
I was terrible at saying no.
Last Tuesday around four in the afternoon, Denise appeared at my door.
