I said with a smile. He sighed. “Fine. Come in.” Inside, I learned the truth. Edwin’s wife had died years earlier. His kids had moved on. My loud, happy home reminded him of everything he’d lost. Tipping over my bins had been his way of acting out. “I’m sorry,” he said. And I meant it when I replied, “I forgive you.” I invited him to my book club. At first, he resisted—but eventually showed up. Then came Victoria’s bridge nights. Before long, Edwin wasn’t the grumpy man across the street. He was Edwin,
the funny guy who brought scones to meetings and debated classic novels with my boys. He even came for dinner. Nervous but trying, he brought sparkling cider and complimented my roast chicken. My sons warmed up to him quickly, peppering him with questions and giggling when he admitted Moby Dick took him a year to read. As he helped clean up that night, Edwin looked at me and said, “You have a good family.” “You’re part of it now,” I told him. Sometimes, the best revenge isn’t getting even—it’s showing a little compassion. And in the end, kindness didn’t just heal Edwin. It healed a little more of us, too.