She Told Me I Hardly Used The Space Anyway, Which
Roberta started parking her SUV on my driveway for a few minutes, but soon she was leaving it for hours and even overnight.
Despite my requests and a clear PRIVATE DRIVEWAY — NO PARKING sign, she continued.
One morning, her SUV blocked me from reaching an important doctor’s appointment. She eventually appeared hours later and casually said she had been asleep.
The next time she parked there, I decided not to argue. Instead, I waited. By noon, thirty cars had filled my driveway and the gravel lane behind it.
Roberta came outside furious and demanded, “Move them!” I calmly replied, “I can’t. Besides, you barely use your car anyway.”
One of the last visitors, seventy-eight-year-old surveyor Harold Beckwith, recognized Roberta. He was her father-in-law, whose son she had abandoned decades earlier.
The gravel lane was a registered right-of-way leading to an old orchard my late husband had restored. The visitors were volunteers attending their annual survey walk.
Roberta eventually moved away. Later, the orchard opened to the public, with a bench honoring my husband.
What she never understood was that some things aren’t empty just because you don’t recognize what they’re holding.
