After he passed away, the house became even more important to me.
It wasn’t just a building.
It was the last place where I could still feel his presence.
The small scratch on the kitchen table where he accidentally dropped a toolbox.
The mark on the wall where we measured our daughter Diane’s height every year.
The garden gnome beside the flower bed that he bought for me at a flea market because he said every garden needed “a little nonsense.”
Those little things mattered.
They reminded me that my life had been full.
That I had loved and been loved.
So I never expected my peaceful routine to be disturbed by something as ridiculous as a neighbor stealing my electricity.
It started with a bill.
A simple piece of paper that arrived in my mailbox on an ordinary Tuesday morning.
I remember standing in my kitchen, holding my coffee in one hand while opening the envelope with the other.
