When a teenage boy knocked on my door asking if he could mow my lawn, I assumed he was simply looking for summer work. It wasn’t until I caught him inside my locked garage that I realized he’d been coming to my house for a reason he was too afraid to admit.
I signed the papers for my new house on a Thursday. By Saturday morning, I was already questioning why I’d ever thought owning a home would be relaxing. The grass reached my ankles, weeds had taken over the flower beds, and the previous owner clearly hadn’t touched the yard in weeks.
I had just carried another moving box inside when someone knocked.
A boy who looked about fifteen stood on my porch beside an old red push mower. His baseball cap was faded from the sun, his sneakers were patched, and the mower looked as though it had survived several generations.
“You the new owner?”
“I am.”
