They felt entitled to my time, my skills, my entire weekend. It was written in every expectation, every request that wasn’t really a request at all. One Saturday morning about four months ago, I pulled up to their house at my usual time and found a piece of paper taped to the garage door.
I got out of my truck, walked over, and read it. “Things to do today” was written in Carol’s neat, precise handwriting. Under that heading was a bulleted list: Fix squeaky screen door.
Replace two light bulbs in living room. Check car battery. Mow lawn.
Clean gutters. Organize tools in garage. No greeting.
No “Hi Nathan, thanks for coming.” Just a to-do list, waiting for me like I was a contractor they’d hired and forgotten to pay. I stood there in the morning sun, staring at that list, feeling something cold settle in my chest. I carefully peeled it off the door and folded it into my pocket.
