The first cedar post of the new fence sat exactly eight feet inside my property line, its raw, yellow-white wood looking like a stake driven into the lawn.

Through the open window, the sharp, sweet smell of fresh-cut wood drifted over the stove where I was frying eggs.

Emma dropped a heavy textbook into her blue duffel bag on the kitchen table.

“Mom, why are those men digging holes in our grass?”

I turned the heat down on the burner and adjusted my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose.

“They must be starting Tyler’s fence.

He mentioned he wanted some privacy back there.”

“Privacy on our side of the lilac bushes?” Emma twisted her silver ring around her finger, her brow furrowing as she leaned against the counter.

“That doesn’t look right at all.”

“I am sure it is just a misunderstanding,” I said, though my chest felt tight.

“Tyler is a commercial real estate agent, so he knows how these things work.”

“He knows how to take whatever he wants,” Emma said, zipping her bag with a sharp yank.

“You need to go out there before they dig any more holes.”

I looked at the three workers in the yard, their shovels biting into the turf I had mowed myself for eleven years.

The main question was whether a professional surveyor would confirm my memory of where my land actually ended, or if I had been mistaken all this time.

That afternoon, the lawn was dry enough for the first cut of the week.

I pulled the starter cord on my green mower and guided it along the familiar path near the edge of the property.

The engine roared, but I had to cut the throttle and pull the machine to a halt eight feet short of my usual turning spot.