An aggravated scream echoes across the driveway from the house next door, and I roll my eyes.

“Mary, you got waffles and syrup all over the table and floor,” the mother yells.

There’s a pause.

“Go outside… now!”

Her mother always speaks in a loud voice. Is always angry with Mary for kid things. Regular things any kid does. So I always know when she is in trouble. Their kitchen and living room windows are almost always open. Sometimes, I can hear Ann yelling even when they’re not. I wish they’d at least close their damn windows on Sunday morning.

I never can hear Mary respond. The kid’s sweet. Always waves at me until I wave back and makes me Christmas treats every December. She dips pretzels in chocolate. They look awful, but I always finish the box.

She gave me my favorite mug. It’s short and round. It looks kind of like a soup bowl with a handle. It’s big and can hold more coffee, which means less trips inside during my Sunday porch swing time. Nowadays, I don’t use any other. If I don’t spend a few quiet hours drinking my favorite coffee right here on Sunday morning between the hours of nine o’clock and twelve o’clock my whole week will end up terrible. I just know it.

It’s happened before, me missing my Sunday ritual. So I sit here despite the ruckus and let myself think. Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m philosophical, like maybe I know why terrible people like to call themselves good or why people get so sad in the winter. Otherwise, when I’m not pretending, my brain just sits blank.

I take a sip of my coffee. It’s good.

After a few minutes Mary comes running outside in sparkly purple sandals, electric blue shorts, and a white t-shirt with frilly sleeves. There’s a large wet mark on the front where her syrup stain must have been before Ann dug in to the unsuspecting fabric with a wet rag.

Mary grabs her basketball and starts throwing it up towards the hoop positioned haphazardly over their garage. The net is missing, but the metal ring still sits lopsided for her to play with.

She never comes close to actually making a basket. She’s far too short and her arms too weak to even get the ball close to the hoop. She’s too small. She’s kind of sickly looking. Fragile even. Her wrists and ankles are practically invisible, and her limbs are pencil thin. I’m over exaggerating. Probably. But she has to be small for her age. Not that I know many kids her age or even know exactly how old she is, but it seems reasonable.

“Hi, Ms. Wells!” she says.

She waves at me, and I nod. She continues to wave at me, her arm frantic but a wide smile on her face. She does this until I wave back, and she laughs to herself in response.

“You always sigh like that!”

I give the closest thing I can to a smile and take another sip.

She’s physically awkward but overly confident in social abilities. Strange girl. Can’t blame her, though. Not with the mother she’s got.

She drops her basketball on the ground and tells it to stay. Dumb considering all of the driveways in our neighborhood are inclines. It starts to roll, but she’s already onto the next thing.

Pumpkins.

There are three pumpkins on their front porch, sitting next to the steps. Two big ones and a smaller one. The little one has a happy smile drawn on it in those paint markers you can get from Hobby Lobby or some other craft store. The smile looks like it was drawn by a three-year-old. She has to be older than three I’d say.

All of the pumpkins have faces. One of the large ones has big red lips and three thick eyelashes coming out of each eye. Terrifying. Must be of her mother.

She grabs the other pumpkin. One with a generic smile drawn in purple and brings it over to me.

“I got this for you,” she says. “I decorated it.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You can put it there.”

I point to the concrete before the steps begin. I don’t want that thing touching my porch and leaking on my new wood stain.

“Daddy called me pumpkin in his latest letter,” she says.

“Oh that’s nice,” I say. I smile, but I don’t mean it. I know those letters aren’t from her father, and I hate my neighbor for lying to this poor girl. One day she’s going to have to tell her. She’s going to have to tell her how her dad ran off with the so-called cleaning lady. That he never actually cared about his kid. And you know what, it’ll be ten times worse for Mary because of the lie she’s unknowingly endured all those years.

“He’s so funny,” she says.

I don’t respond and instead take a drink from my mug.

“You’re using my mug.” She claps her hands.

“Yes, I am.”

I’ll never forget when she gave me this mug. Not out of sentiment, no, because she told me it reminded her of me. Round and can hold lots. If I didn’t pity her so much, I would have given it back. I swear. I only use it out of convenience. That’s that.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Coffee,” I say.

“Coffee again?” she says. “You always drink coffee.”

I nod and take another sip.

“Can I try some?”

“You won’t like it,” I say. “Trust me.”

“Mommy says coffee is bad for your skin and that it causes wrinkles. Is that why you have wrinkles on your forehead?” she asks.

“Probably not,” I say.

She thinks this is the funniest thing. She thinks all of the dull responses I give her are something worth laughing it. They shouldn’t be. Just goes to show how boring her mother is if she thinks I’m funny.

I know you’re supposed to be supportive of all single mothers and women in general. But I really don’t like Ann. Her personality is just as fake as the nose she claims naturally changed with age.

Mary says she loves her mom. That’s good I suppose. Wonder how long it will last. I wonder what things I’ll see from my porch swing in ten-or-so years when Mary’s 16 or 17. Wonder what I’ll hear. Lord, save me from that.

Mary’s hair is blonde now, a dirty blonde. I wonder if it’ll darken with age. My hair did. I wonder if she’ll bleach it like Ann does. God, I hope not.

Mary is still sitting on my porch prodding an ant with a fallen leaf from the ash tree in my yard.

“Do you think ants have birthday parties?” she asks.

“Probably not,” I say.

“I think they do,” she says.

I take another sip of my coffee. It’s cooling off. I think I may go inside and warm it up when Ann comes out. I don’t much care for talking with her. She has a quick temper about stupid things like misplacing her curling iron, which if I’m being honest is a blessing for the rest of us.

“Good morning, Ms. Wells,” she says.

She’s standing on her porch in her church clothes. Her skirt sheer and short and her hair the size of Russia.

“Morning, Ann,” I manage to get out.

I look away in an effort to avoid any more small talk that neither of us really want. When she isn’t being dull, she’s being a gossip, and I don’t want to hear about anyone at her church or the Samuelsons who live down the street. I take her showing up outside as my cue to go reheat my coffee now rather than later.

As I get up off my swing, I notice the basketball sitting against the curb on the other side of the street. Mary is off my porch and on her way down the sidewalk to it. I almost tell her to be careful.

I’m halfway through the doorway, still gripping the handle, when I hear Ann scream. Her scream outshining the sound of screeching tires startles me enough that I spill my hazelnut coffee down my shirt.

I turn back around to see a lone purple sandal on the edge of the asphalt.