tea.
Then I walked outside.
Kyle had stopped in his own driveway.
He was removing his helmet.
I walked across the damaged edge of my lawn until I reached the boundary between our properties.
“Those flowers were for my husband,” I told him. “He passed away.”
Kyle looked toward the garden.
He saw the tire mark.
He saw the flowers lying crushed against the soil.
Then he shrugged.
“It’s just grass and flowers. They’ll grow back.”
There was no anger in his voice.
No deliberate cruelty.
That almost made it
