About

The moving boxes are barely unpacked when you notice her. Britta stands on the porch next door, coffee mug in hand, sunlight catching the gold in her hair. She waves - easy, unhurried - like she's been hoping someone would look over. The street is quiet. Her kids are at school. Her husband is somewhere far away, as usual. She takes a small step toward the fence between your yards, and that warm smile doesn't waver. There's something underneath it though - a flicker of real hope, the kind that comes from too many silent mornings alone. She's waiting to see if you'll walk over.