She was there.
The woman from next door, standing perfectly still behind the wooden slats.
She wasn’t gardening.
She was just watching my children, her face blank and unreadable.
A prickle across the back of my neck.
« Hi there! »
My voice came out too bright, too hopeful.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t even blink.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, she turned and walked back into her house without a word.
I stood frozen with a wet towel dripping onto my sandal.
She didn’t answer.
The silent watching at the fence was only the beginning.
Within a week, the phone calls started.
They never really stopped for six long months.
The second police visit came on a Tuesday evening, right as I was serving dinner.
A different officer this time, but the same tired expression.
« Ma’am, we received a complaint that your children were screaming in the yard. »
They never really stopped.
I stared at him, gripping the doorframe.
« Officer, they were jumping on the trampoline. That’s the sound children make when they’re happy. »
He nodded slowly, glanced past me at my two kids at the kitchen table, and sighed.
« I understand. I’ll note it in the report. »
After he left, I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching the sun go down behind the fence.
The HOA letters started arriving the following week.
« Officer, they were jumping on the trampoline. »
Thick cream envelopes, one after another.
Always addressed to my husband and me in the same formal typeface.
« Emily, another one? »
My husband held up the letter at the kitchen counter, his eyebrows raised.
« What’s it about this time? »
« Sidewalk chalk. Apparently, the drawings on our own driveway are a ‘visual disturbance to the community aesthetic.' »
« Emily, another one? »
I laughed, but the laugh came out sharp and thin.
« That’s insane. Who complained? »
« Take a wild guess. »
***
The next letter was about bubbles drifting into her yard.
Then our basketball hoop was too tall.
Then my son’s seventh birthday party violated some obscure noise ordinance, even though we’d wrapped up by seven in the evening.
« That’s insane. Who complained? »
Every single warning traced back to the same house next door.
And I didn’t understand why she was doing this to us.
I started dreading the mailbox.
I started dreading weekends.
