Phyllis

The inspector pointed at the ground. "This marker is the property line." "Your garage is about three feet past it." Nobody said anything. I looked at the garage. I had always thought it looked a little close. My neighbor's face went red. "That garage has been there for twenty years." "It was there when I bought the house." The inspector nodded. "Then it was probably built wrong before you ever got here." "But it's on her land." "She can require you to remove it." My neighbor looked at me. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him. "I never knew," he said quietly. "I only wanted things to be fair." I thought about the notes he left on my car. The calls to the city about my trash cans. The three years of tension over every little thing. Then I noticed something. His garage door was open. Inside were rows of shelves, and on those shelves were dozens of jars. Labels in careful handwriting. Tomatoes. Peaches. Green beans. His wife had passed two years ago. I remembered her. She used to leave a jar on my porch every August. I never knew who made them after she was gone.