When it was installed three years earlier, I had saved every document.
I kept the approved accessibility modification permit in a blue folder, along with the contractor’s drawings, the final inspection sheet, photographs of the finished work, and the survey that showed the property line.
I did not save those papers because I expected a fight.
I saved them because life with a disability teaches you that ordinary access often survives only when someone can prove it was allowed.
Jason moved in next door the following spring.
At first, he seemed merely particular.
He trimmed his lawn twice a week, washed his pickup in the driveway every Saturday, and once asked me to move our trash cans six inches because he thought they made the space between our houses look uneven.
I moved them.
That was the first trust signal I gave him.
Not the cans themselves, but the idea that I would choose peace even when he was being unreasonable.
