The next morning, something strange happened. Roland came outside with a lawn mower and cut the narrow strip of grass between our houses. Then he crossed over and cut my side too. I watched from my window but said nothing. A few hours later, there was a small dish on my porch. Inside were peppermints. He never mentioned them.

Neither did I. Months passed, and the water account remained in Odessa’s name. One day I asked him why he had never changed it. He looked at the bill, smiled faintly, and said, “Some bills are worth paying just to see her name print out.” I understood then that the water had never really been the important part. Odessa had left behind a lesson neither of us would forget: sometimes love looks like a letter, sometimes like a paid bill, and sometimes like knowing when to stay silent so another person can keep their dignity.