For years, my husband and I found our deepest sense of calm in water. Not loud pool parties or daytime splashing—just quiet, nighttime swims in our backyard pool. After dinner, when the neighborhood settled, we would slip into the water and let the day fall away. We floated side by side, sometimes talking softly, sometimes saying nothing at all. The gentle sound of water against tile became our ritual, our way of staying grounded together.
When a new family moved in next door, we exchanged polite waves and kept to ourselves. They seemed quiet, which suited us fine. A few days later, the father knocked on our door and bluntly asked us to stop using the pool at night. No greeting. No explanation. Just a demand. Confused but calm, we listened and said we’d think about it. Our swims were peaceful and respectful, so we continued.
For weeks, nothing happened—until one evening when I felt watched. I turned toward the fence and saw their son, about twelve, standing very still. He held a folded note against the wood, waiting. His posture wasn’t curious or mischievous. It was careful. Nervous. And that’s when my chest tightened, knowing something wasn’t right.
