The sight of the gardener meticulously trimming the hedges sent a fresh wave of heat through Martha. It wasn't the heat of the July sun; it was a simmering, bitter heat that settled in her stomach. She slammed the kitchen window shut, the glass rattling in its frame. Her neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, kept a gardener. Martha, meanwhile, had to beg her son to mow the lawn when he visited, which was rarely enough to keep the place from looking like a neglected field. She knew he had money; the sleek black car in the driveway was proof enough.
Her hands clenched into fists. She pictured the monthly gardener's bill, a sum she couldn’t even imagine. Mr. Henderson never seemed to lift a finger, just sat on his porch with a glass of something amber and expensive-looking, watching the world go by. Martha ground her teeth. They had struggled, sacrificing everything for their children's futures. And he, the wealthy old coot, got to live in idle luxury.
She grabbed her keys and stormed out, the screen door slamming behind her. She would just go for a walk. Needed the air. But as she rounded the corner, she saw him, Mr. Henderson, waving merrily from his porch. Her breath caught. That infuriating smile.