What began as a quiet shock in the backyard became an unexpected lesson in how fragile, and fixable, neighborly trust can be. The orange cord had felt like a silent accusation: that my space, my bills, my permission didn’t matter. Adding the lock wasn’t about revenge; it was about drawing a clear, calm line before resentment had the chance to grow teeth.

That’s why the note hit so deeply. It wasn’t defensive or half-hearted. It was vulnerable: an admission that he hadn’t thought it through, that he was embarrassed, that he cared whether I felt disrespected. Standing face to face later, we weren’t arguing about electricity; we were acknowledging how easy it is to overstep, and how rare it is to own it. In the end, the cord didn’t divide us. It connected us, by forcing a conversation we didn’t know we needed.