“Turn it off,” I told her husband through the open window. “You’re only making it worse for yourself. This is vandalism.”
He glanced at Katherine, then at me, and for one moment he actually looked afraid.
“This is vandalism.”
“Katherine,” he said, “maybe we should—”
“Finish it,” she barked at him. “We started, so finish it.”
The concrete kept coming.
I kept recording.
Eventually, I turned and walked back into my house, the roar of the truck fading behind the closed door.
“We started, so finish it.”
Inside, my four children stood clustered at the kitchen window, their faces pale.
My youngest was crying.
“Mommy, our pool,” my oldest whispered. “Daddy’s pool.”
I knelt and gathered all four of them against me.
Their little arms wrapped around my neck.
“Listen to me,” I said. “That woman thinks she took something from us. She’s wrong.”
My youngest was crying.
“But it’s ruined,” my son said.
