The day we buried our father, the eccentric neighbor who had terrified us as children appeared at our mother’s door. He grunted condolences with a shake of his head: “A good man, a bloody good man.” As our mother’s billowing grief subsided over the years, we noticed that a section of the fence between her yard and his had disappeared. A path developed. For two decades, that path mapped the unlikeliest of friendships and led to a quiet, unexpected love. Our neighbor won’t walk that path again. Our mother grieves for another bloody good man.