For most of my childhood, I believed that my grandfather, Arthur Bellamy, had been born with an unusual talent for holding grudges. He was a man of routines, habits, and firm opinions. Once he decided that someone had wronged him, even in the smallest way, there was no convincing him otherwise. That stubbornness became almost legendary in our small neighborhood, especially when it came to his long-standing feud with the man who lived next door.
That man’s name was Harold Finch.
I never fully understood how their rivalry began. Whenever I asked, my grandfather would wave a dismissive hand and mutter something about “principles” or “respect.” My mother, meanwhile, would roll her eyes and say it had something to do with property lines, flowerbeds, and a dispute that should have ended decades ago. As far as I could remember, the two men were constantly at odds, arguing over everything from fence heights to tree branches that crossed imaginary borders. Continue reading…
