The crane company’s insurer was also assessing what happened.
Nobody could promise who would pay which expenses.
Meanwhile, the damaged Mercedes remained trapped on my lawn.
Richard had stopped shouting at me, but our silence was hardly peaceful.
Each morning, I watched him speaking on the phone beside the barrier, looking more exhausted than angry.
By Wednesday, I received another unpleasant surprise.
The contractor warned not to delay stabilizing the damaged porch while waiting for insurance decisions.
That meant paying for urgent work myself.
I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the estimate.
My revenge had taken one night.
Cleaning up the consequences might take months.
That afternoon, someone knocked on my side door.
It was Richard.
I expected another argument.
Instead, he stood holding a business card.
“I know a contractor who does structural repairs,” he said. “He can examine your porch tomorrow.”
I stared at him.
“What’s the catch?”
