There’s a sharp line down our shared yard. His side is perfect; ours looks wild. And yet, I’m the one mowing it every week.
It started when our neighbor, Rami, got a new mower and stopped cutting our side. At first, I thought it was a boundary thing—but then he looked at our window before turning away. Weeks passed, and I finally asked him about it. He only said: “You should ask your wife why I stopped.”
Turns out, Rami had crossed a line months earlier—flirted with my wife, Pree. She handled it, he apologized, but his pride lingered. That’s why he stopped mowing.
Then one summer day, Rami collapsed at home. I found his dog alone and called for help. He survived, embarrassed and humbled. Sitting with him in the hospital, we laughed about the lawns.
We mowed our own yards from then on—but I also started checking in on him. We rebuilt our friendship, not the same as before, but real, honest, and stronger.
