By the middle of July, she was asking four times a week. The requests came by text, by phone, and occasionally through the children, who would appear at the door and ask so sweetly that refusing felt like kicking an innocent animal. I tried to respond with ordinary boundaries. I said Wednesday was inconvenient. I said Saturday morning would work if she arrived after ten. I said no to a Sunday visit because I had guests of my own. Sandra always accepted the words in the immediate moment, then behaved the next time as though the limitation had expired.
One afternoon, I came home from the supermarket and found her sister Melanie sitting in my favorite patio chair. Two children I had never met were splashing in the pool while Sandra explained to Melanie where I stored clean towels. Olivia and Henry were there, too. A float shaped like a flamingo bumped against the tile as the children made a game of climbing onto its wings. I stood at the open gate holding a grocery bag and watched the scene with a sensation that was less like irritation than dislocation.
"Oh, Rachel, perfect timing," Sandra called. "Melanie's children were dying to see the pool. I knew you wouldn't mind."
"You knew I hadn't been asked," I replied.
Melanie straightened, suddenly uncomfortable. She began gathering a towel from the chair, clearly recognizing a boundary that Sandra apparently regarded as negotiable. Sandra waved one hand dismissively and said she had been planning to text me, but the children had already changed clothes. I asked them to finish their swim and leave within fifteen minutes. To Melanie's credit, she apologized without trying to justify the situation. Sandra said I was making things awkward in front of the children.
That sentence stayed with me. The children had not arranged the visit, brought unauthorized guests, or presumed to distribute somebody else's belongings. The awkwardness belonged entirely to the adults, yet Sandra tried to shift responsibility for it onto my reaction. It was the first time I recognized what would later become her regular method. She would create a situation without permission, wait until reversing it became socially uncomfortable, and treat the discomfort as evidence that she should be allowed to continue.
I started paying closer attention. On evenings when I worked late, I would notice wet footprints on the patio or a chair moved away from its usual position. Once I found the skimmer leaning against the wrong wall of the equipment enclosure. Twice my supply of spare towels diminished in a way I could not account for. None of these observations was proof of wrongdoing, and I did not present them as such. But I knew my property well enough to feel when somebody had been using it without telling me.