“Sometimes when you’re pushing heavy iron and kicking bags, you lose track of where your feet come down.

I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your garden stakes.”

I came out from behind the screen door and stood on the top porch step next to my daughter.

Trent didn’t look at my face or at my hands.

His eyes dropped to the yellow plastic survey flags stuck in the grass four feet inside our mowing line.

He took note of where the corner pipe was, sized up the distance to my patio wall, and glanced back toward his father’s driveway extension.

“Apology accepted, Trent,” Emily said quietly, her fingers clamped on the cover of her textbook.