The man upstairs introduced himself three days later.
His name was Samuel.
He was younger than Daniel had been when he moved in, perhaps thirty-five, and he worked from home. He had a habit of taking phone calls on the balcony, which meant I occasionally heard half of his conversations through the open window.
He was polite.
A little reserved.
And apparently incapable of keeping a plant alive.
Within two weeks, every plant on his balcony looked thirsty.
One afternoon, I knocked on his door.
He opened it with a surprised expression.
"Hi."
"I'm Margaret from 3B."
"I know."
I raised an eyebrow.
"You do?"
"The balcony."
I laughed.
"Of course."
He smiled.
"Is something wrong?"
"No."
I pointed upward.
"Your plants are dying."
He looked genuinely alarmed.
"They are?"
"Yes."
"I thought they looked like that normally."
I laughed.
"No. They're thirsty."
He looked embarrassed.
"I've never owned plants."
"That explains it."
"Can you help?"
"Certainly."
We spent twenty minutes watering them.
Samuel listened carefully.
He asked questions.
He took notes.
I found myself enjoying the simplicity of it.
When we finished, he looked at the balcony.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Then he noticed the mug in my hand.
It was the one Daniel had given me.
He smiled.
"Nice mug."
"It has a history."
"What kind?"
I looked up.
"One involving a tea bag."
He laughed.
"I don't think I want to ask."
"Probably wise."
That should have been the end of it.
But a week later, another tea bag appeared.
It landed near my chair at 7:11 in the morning.
I stared at it.
My first reaction was not anger.
It was disappointment.
I looked upward.
Samuel's balcony door was open.
He wasn't there.
I picked up the tea bag.
Then I heard his voice.
"Margaret?"
I looked up.
He was standing behind the glass.
He opened the door.
"Did something fall?"
I held up the tea bag.
His face changed.
"Oh."
He looked horrified.
"I swear I didn't throw that."
I smiled.
"I believe you."
"It must have fallen out of the trash."
"Then secure your trash."
"I will."
He disappeared inside.
Ten minutes later, he knocked on my door.
"I fixed it."
"That was fast."
"I didn't want you thinking—"
He stopped.
"What?"
"That I knew about the story and was testing you."
I laughed.
"That thought hadn't occurred to me."
"It occurred to me."
"Why?"
"Because my friend told me."
"What friend?"
"Leah."
I stared at him.
"Leah knows you?"
"She rented my old apartment."
The building suddenly felt impossibly small.
Samuel laughed.
"She told me about Daniel."
"Of course she did."
"She said the tea bag story is legendary."
"It was not legendary."
"It was to her."
I shook my head.
"Please don't encourage this."
He smiled.
"I won't."
And he didn't.
The tea bags stopped.
The plants recovered.
Samuel became another ordinary neighbor.
That was when I realized how different I had become.
Years earlier, one tea bag would have consumed my attention.
Now one tea bag could be handled with a conversation.
Not because I tolerated it.
Because I knew how to distinguish an accident from a pattern.
That distinction saved me from unnecessary anger.
It also saved Samuel from being judged for someone else's history.
Months later, Daniel visited again.
He brought Emily.
She was now old enough to read the tea mug without asking what it meant.
We sat on the balcony.
Samuel was upstairs watering his plants.
Emily looked up.
"Is that the new neighbor?"
"Yes."
"Does he throw tea bags?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
I laughed.
"He dropped one."
Emily looked at Daniel.
"Like you?"
"Not exactly."
"What happened?"
Daniel sighed.
"I apologized."
"Good."
She nodded.
Then she looked at me.
"Did you forgive him?"
"I accepted his apology."
"That's not the same."
I smiled.
"No."
She thought for a moment.
"Why?"
"Because forgiveness is something you decide for yourself."
She looked at Daniel.
"Did you forgive Daddy?"
I laughed.
"That's his question to answer."
Daniel smiled.
"I hope she did."
Emily looked satisfied.
"Then you're friends."
"We've established that I'm not his friend."
Daniel shook his head.
"She says that every time."
"Because it's true."
Emily laughed.
The afternoon passed quickly.
Before they left, Emily handed me another drawing.
This one showed several balconies stacked above each other.
Every balcony had a person.
Every person had a cup.
At the bottom was a small trash can.
I held it up.
"Very subtle."
She smiled.
"Daddy helped."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I gave you the idea."
"Exactly."
I laughed.
After they left, I placed the drawing beside the mug.
That evening, Samuel knocked.
"I wanted to ask you something."
"Sure."
"Would you like these?"
He handed me a small box.
Inside were tea bags.
Different flavors.
Chamomile.
Peppermint.
Earl Grey.
Green tea.
"Why are you giving me these?"
"Because I bought too many."
I stared at him.
He started laughing.
"That's cruel."
"I couldn't resist."
I laughed too.
"Fine."
He left.
I made a cup of peppermint tea.
Then I sat outside.
The building was quiet.
The air smelled like rain.
I looked at the balconies above.
Three years earlier, I would have watched them carefully.
Now I simply looked.
There is a difference.
One is vigilance.
The other is awareness.
I had spent enough years learning it.
A week later, I received a call from Daniel.
He sounded excited.
"Emily has won something."
"What?"
"A writing competition."
"What did she write?"
There was a pause.
"The balcony story."
I laughed.
"You're joking."
"No."
"What did she call it?"
He told me.
I was silent.
It was a beautiful title.
Simple.
Nothing about tea bags.
Nothing about neighbors.
Nothing about revenge.
It was about a person learning that boundaries and kindness could exist at the same time.
"Did she use my name?"
"No."
"Good."
"She used Balcony Lady."
I groaned.
Daniel laughed.
"She said that's your literary name."
"She is impossible."
"She gets that from you."
"Absolutely not."
He laughed.
Then he became quiet.
"She wrote something I want to read to you."
"All right."
He read the final paragraph.
It said that sometimes a person throws something small because they don't know where else to put a much bigger feeling.
But the person who receives it doesn't have to catch the feeling too.
She can put the object down.
She can say no.
She can choose what belongs to her and what doesn't.
I sat quietly.
Daniel finished.
"Well?"
I wiped my eyes.
"She's a good writer."
"She is."
"Tell her I'm proud of her."
"I will."
We talked for a while longer.
After the call, I returned to the balcony.
I looked at the tea mug.
Then at the trash can.
Then at the railing.
It struck me how perfectly ordinary all three objects were.
A cup.
A bin.
A railing.
Yet together they represented the entire strange history of my relationship with Daniel.
The cup represented what he was carrying.
The bin represented responsibility.
The railing represented a boundary.
None of them were complicated.
People were.
The following morning, I woke early.
I opened the balcony door.
A small breeze moved through the plants.
Nothing had fallen.
Nothing needed fixing.
I sat down with my tea.
For once, I didn't think about what might happen next.
I simply drank it.
That was perhaps the final gift the whole experience had given me.
Peace did not always come from making sure nothing went wrong.
Sometimes it came from knowing you could handle it if something did.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Daniel Returned One Final Time With His Family, and the Conversation We Had on the Balcony Changed What I Remembered Most
The First Tea Bag Was Easy to Ignore, but the Next One Made It Impossible to Pretend Nothing Was Happening
Part 10 of 12
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