My husband and I always found our calm in water. Nearly every evening, when the day softened, we sat quietly in our backyard pool, talking as the gentle ripples eased our minds. It wasn’t luxury or exercise—it was our ritual.
When a new family moved in next door, we exchanged polite waves and continued as usual, until one evening the father asked us to stop using the pool at night. He didn’t explain much, only said it caused problems. Confused and protective of our harmless routine, we kept going.
A few nights later, as we dried off, I noticed movement by the fence. Their young son stood there, silently slipping a folded note through the slats.
In careful handwriting, he explained that his younger sister had been seriously ill. In the hospital, water sounds once comforted her during therapy. Now, at night, those same sounds overwhelmed her instead of soothing her.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
The next day, we knocked on their door. What began as awkwardness turned into honesty. We adjusted our pool hours and made small changes together.
Our pool remained—but it now reminded us that every request has a story, and understanding begins with listening.
