I told her that did not make me feel better.

“It wasn’t supposed to,” she answered.

She sat beside me and asked whether I had considered keeping the properties after the dispute ended.

The question surprised me.

I had assumed I would preserve Lillian’s business indefinitely because she wanted me to inherit it.

But managing rental homes demanded attention that my construction work did not always allow.

If I could not fulfill the obligation well, sentiment alone would not protect the tenants.

I said I was considering hiring a permanent manager and changing how we reviewed tenant complaints.

Mara suggested inviting the tenants to evaluate the new system before signing a long contract.

“They know better than you what it feels like when nobody returns a call,” she said.

The next morning, Iris helped me design a maintenance portal that sent copies of every request to the tenant and the owner.

Tenants could still call by phone or submit a written note without using an app.

No complaint could be marked resolved without an explanation and an opportunity to confirm the work.

We established a separate process for emergency repairs that did not depend on my approval while I was traveling.

Iris warned that software would not replace judgment or competent people.

“A terrible manager can ignore a notification just as easily as a letter,” she said.

We added quarterly tenant meetings and independent annual inspections to the plan.

I also asked Malik to review management fees monthly rather than relying on year-end statements.

The changes did not erase what had happened.

They reduced the chance that I would fail to notice it again.

One Friday evening, Janelle invited me to watch Calvin’s old survey photographs projected onto a screen in her living room.

He had spent several days labeling places with her help.

A photograph showed the original drainage swale before construction altered it.

Another showed Walter Whitmore standing beside an excavation with a concerned expression.

The final picture showed Lillian and Calvin near the entrance to Ash Lane, holding a board on which the words KEEP THE WATER MOVING were painted.

Calvin smiled when he saw that photograph.

“She listened,” he said.

Janelle took his hand.

“We’re listening now, Dad,” she replied.

I carried the images home in a secure digital folder and thought about how long people had tried to preserve information before anyone took it seriously.

Brenda had insisted that everyone on the street answered to her.