I took a deep breath and said, “I was thinking, you know, that it wouldn’t be hard to fix up the front yard
if I could get some nails and a hammer and maybe some paint? And how much does grass seed cost? It can’t be that much, right?”
“I could plant a lawn, and maybe even some flowers?” My parents stopped eating and stared at me.
“I know how to use a saw and a hammer—it could be, you know, a project.” My mother quit looking at me and stared at my father, instead.
My father sighed and said, “The yard is not our responsibility, Julianna.” “It’s… it’s not?”
He shook his head and said, “It’s Mr. Finnegan’s.” “Who’s Mr. Finnegan?” “The man who owns this house.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “What?” My father cleared his throat and said, “The landlord.” “You mean we don’t own this house?”
They looked at each other, having some private wordless conversation I couldn’t decipher.
Finally my father said, “I didn’t realize you didn’t know that.”
“But… but that doesn’t make sense! Aren’t landlords supposed to come and do things?
Like fix the roof when it leaks and clear the drains when they’re plugged? You always do that stuff, Dad.”
“Why do you do it when he’s supposed to?” “Because,” he sighed, “it’s easier than asking him for help.”
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