The Street of Perfect Neighbors
We moved into Oak Ridge Drive on a Saturday in May. The house was small—a three-bedroom ranch with a white picket fence and a lawn that had been mowed with geometric precision. The realtor had called it "charming." My wife Caroline called it "cozy." I called it "an escape," which was what I called everything I tried to convince myself was an improvement over New York. We had been in New York...
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