My neighbor had borrowed enough things from me over the years that I should have learned my lesson long before she asked for my mother’s old stand mixer.
The ladder came back muddy.
The cooler came back smelling like fruit punch.
My roasting pan came back dented.
A lid disappeared from my crock pot and somehow became nobody’s fault
Every single time, Denise had an explanation.
“Oh, I meant to clean that.”
“It was already scratched, wasn’t it?”
“You know how kids are.”
Apparently her children were responsible for every dent, stain, missing part, and late return in the neighborhood.
The truth was simpler.
Denise was careless.
Not with her own things.
With other people’s.
And because I hated confrontation, I had spent six years teaching her that she could be.
We had been neighbors long enough that saying no always felt awkward.
Our kids had played together when they were little.
We took in each other’s mail during vacations.
We watered plants.
We waved from our driveways.
She wasn’t a terrible person.
That almost made it harder.
She was just the kind of person who seemed to forget that borrowed things still belonged to somebody else.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, she knocked on my door.
“Please tell me you have a stand mixer.”
I already knew where this was going.
“I do.”
