![]() ![]() She was shaking her head at me, a strange expression on her face. I remember there was a silence then, and I looked up at my mother. I switched the bulb around, scooting my knees in the dirt to get closer to the fence, my eyes never leaving the father as he swung a baby from a car seat while a curly-haired toddler climbed his back. You’ve got that bulb wrong side up, Samantha.” The messy family who lowers real estate values. The ones who never plant flowers, or do and let them die. ![]() “This kind of thing.” Mom gestured toward the car with the trowel, twisting her silvery blond hair into a coil with the other hand. I pressed my face to the gap in the slats, watching in amazement as two parents and five children spilled from the sedan, like a clown car at the circus. ![]() Walking quickly to the picket fence that divided our house from the one next door, she perched on her tiptoes to peer at the new neighbors. She was eight and already restless with Mom’s chore of the day, planting jonquil bulbs in our front garden. “This-what?” my big sister called from down the driveway. “Oh no,” Mom sighed, arms falling to her sides. We were standing in our yard that day ten years ago when their battered sedan pulled up to the low-slung shingled house next door, close behind the moving van. ![]() The Garretts were forbidden from the start. ![]()
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