My husband and I had always found peace in water.

Every evening, once the world grew quiet and the day loosened its grip on us, we slipped into our backyard pool. No music. No splashing. Just the soft lap of water against tile and the low murmur of our voices. It wasn’t exercise or indulgence—it was our ritual. Our way of reminding each other that we were still here, still connected.

When the new family moved in next door, we waved, exchanged polite smiles, and went on with our lives. A few days later, the father knocked on our door. His tone was stiff, almost rehearsed.

“I need you to stop using the pool at night,” he said.

No apology. No explanation. Just a request that felt more like a demand.

We were confused. Our pool was quiet. We weren’t hosting parties or playing music. We nodded politely but didn’t agree. After all, this was our home, and our evenings were harmless. So we continued.