"It's in the handbook," she said smoothly. "Perhaps you didn't read it carefully when you moved in."
"I read it," I replied. "Didn't see anything about no driveway parking overnight."
Her lips curved in that smile of hers—the one that always felt like it was hiding a knife. "Oh, we like to keep our neighborhood uniform. Not everyone appreciates flashy cars cluttering up the street. Some of us value a certain aesthetic."
Flashy. There it was.
I swallowed my irritation. "It's not on the street. It's in my driveway."
Her smile sharpened. "All the same, it draws attention."
I just stared at her for a moment. Didn't she even realize what she was saying? Or maybe she did. Either way, it was clear: Patricia wasn't talking about HOA rules. She was talking about me. About what it meant for me, a Black man in Maplewood Estates, to own something she thought was too nice, too loud, too visible.
I forced a polite nod. "Thanks for clarifying."
Then I turned and walked away, every step heavy with the knowledge that this was only the beginning.
Over the next few weeks, the notes kept coming:
Reminder: Please keep noise levels low. Vehicles revving engines are disruptive.
Reminder: All exterior maintenance must meet neighborhood standards if your lawn shows signs of patchiness.
Reminder: Trash bins should not be visible from the street.