One summer evening, my daughter visited.
We sat on the porch drinking iced tea.
She looked toward the fox.
“He looks terrible.”
“I know.”
“You should buy a new one.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I smiled.
“He finally learned something.”
She stared at me.
“The ceramic fox?”
“Both of us.”
She laughed so hard she almost spilled her drink.
I looked down Cedarbrook Lane.
Children rode bicycles.
Someone grilled dinner.
A dog barked at absolutely nothing.
My new neighbors waved.
I waved back.
Everything looked ordinary.
That was what I had wanted all along.
Not victory.
Not embarrassment.
Not karma.
Just ordinary peace.
But this time I understood something my husband had probably understood years before.
Keeping the peace does not mean keeping quiet when someone crosses the line.
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