My landlord threw a pair of heavy black MMA gloves onto my shoes and threatened to put me in the hospital right in front of my eight-year-old sister.
By 4:00 PM that afternoon, Maya and I returned to the duplex on Oak Street. We’d dropped off her school library books, and the afternoon sun was beginning to dip.
On the front lawn, the heavy black MMA gloves that Marcus had thrown at my feet two days prior were gone.
Marcus was kneeling by the lower basement entry, a metal toolbox open beside him. He wasn’t wearing his usual angry expression. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He was quietly replacing the latch assembly he had damaged during his verbal tirade. The wood around the latch was fresh, a stark contrast to the old paint.
He worked in complete silence, adjusting the small brass screws with a screwdriver, wiping the fresh wood trim with a rag. He didn’t call out to me. He didn’t ask for attention or acknowledge our presence. He simply repaired what he had broken.
On the bottom porch step, neatly placed, was a fresh white envelope. Inside, I found a signed written statement. It waived the next month’s rent of $1,200, marked as an administrative credit. Beside it was a written receipt, confirming the full return of my security deposit to an escrow account, rather than a direct refund.
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