Home should feel safe, but my neighbor Grace made it a constant struggle. I’d wake up uneasy, wondering if I’d get peace or chaos. Some days stayed still, but it was a tense kind of calm. Others, she’d hit me with something fresh, and I knew who to blame—until a note slipped in, “You need to know the truth about your husband,” and turned my whole story inside out.
After my grandma died, Steve and I moved here for a clean slate. Grace ruined that from the jump. She blanked Steve but came at me full force. Her scrappy pup trashed my daisies, she lopped off my cherry tree for leaning over, and once sicced the cops on our 6 p.m. picnic for “disturbing” her. I stopped trying to pretty up the yard—she’d just wreck it.
One warm day, I was digging dirt when water slammed me, drenching me head to toe. I saw her hose swinging. “Cut it out, you cruel cow!” I bellowed. She popped up, “Oh, didn’t see you, Beth.” “Bull!” I raged. “Dry off—it’s nothing,” she said, slipping away. I trudged in, sopping. Steve looked up, “What hit you?” “Grace!” I yelled. “You lived near her—stop her!” He floated moving, but I snapped, “She’s not winning!”
Steve dodged her, citing late hours—pushing 50, I chalked it up to job stress, not tricks. He kept urging a sale, but I dug in—this was mine. Then Grace’s son, Matt, showed, kind despite her. “Hey, Beth,” he said. “Your mom’s torture,” I replied. “I’ll speak to her,” he promised. How’d he turn out so sweet? Word was her guy ditched her pregnant—she’d drive anyone off, but Matt deserved a dad.
Drinking lemonade outside, Grace crowed, “Matt’s got a raise—engagement too.” “Cool,” I mumbled. “Sad, no little ones for you,” she taunted. That stung—I’d craved kids, but Steve stalled, and at 50, it was over. “Burn, Grace!” I shouted, retreating, gutted.
Next day, after shopping, Steve was out. A mailbox peek showed a blank note: “You need to know the truth about your husband,” with a park meet. Pulse racing, I faked a chore run and went. Grace marched up. “You?” I sighed. “Truth time,” she said, showing Steve kissing a girl in his car. “Not possible,” I croaked. “He’s a repeat—he left me with Matt for you,” she said.
I slumped, “Matt’s his?” “Yep,” she confirmed. “I swear I didn’t know,” I said. Her glare eased, “Really?” “No clue—I’m sorry.” She nodded, “Maybe I got you wrong.” “Why now?” I asked. “No one should be fooled like me,” she answered. We drove back silent. Steve beamed, “Got a buyer—let’s move.” “I’m not,” I said. “I know—Matt, your affair.” He begged, “Wait—” “Go,” I cut in. He spat, “You’re nothing without me.” “I’ll survive,” I said. He stormed out, and I exhaled—Grace and I might find calm now.
