For years, I was certain my neighbor existed for one reason: to make my life miserable.
Sharp-eyed, perpetually scowling, and allergic to kindness, he perfected a quiet cruelty. Complaints about my fence. Glances that cut like knives. A “mistaken” weed killer spray that ruined my plants. I told myself to ignore him, rationalized his bitterness as loneliness or boredom. But the morning he dumped an entire mound of dirt on my roses, crushing months of care, something inside me snapped.
I loved my mornings. Sitting on my porch with coffee in hand, notebook balanced on my knee, I sketched bouquets and tracked flower orders. My garden—rows of pinks, reds, and whites—was my pride. Until that morning, when I looked up and saw a brutal heap of soil where my roses had been. Crushed stems poked through the dirt like broken bones. I stood frozen, shaking, fury boiling.
I stormed next door, ready for confrontation. And then I stopped. The driveway was full of unfamiliar cars. Dark, solemn faces.
“Oh… you didn’t hear?” said a woman from down the street. “Harold passed away last night. Heart attack.”
Shock replaced anger. The man I had spent years resenting was gone.
Before I could process it, his attorney appeared. I was required to attend the reading of the will. Me.
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