My daughter still uses that ramp every day.
She rolls down it toward the driveway in the morning and back up it when she comes home.
The boards make a soft, familiar sound beneath her wheels.
That sound used to disappear into the background.
Now I hear what it means.
It means she can leave.
It means she can return.
It means the front door belongs to her, too.
And the orange line that once cut across Jason’s perfect new garage became the simplest lesson on our street:
You do not get to erase someone else’s access just because you assumed no one would measure what belonged to whom.
