I thought my new neighbor was just another well-meaning busybody, always sticking her nose into my life. But when I called the police to report a break-in, I discovered a shocking truth about her—one that would forever change how I saw everything.
Our neighborhood had seemed like heaven on earth to me, until one specific moment that changed everything. After the divorce, Amalia, Simon, and I moved into this house, and everything was perfect.
A quiet neighborhood, friendly neighbors, I was close to work, and the kids were near school.
There was also a family with kids living next door, our children were friends, and we often visited each other.
We’d even joked once about combining our yards so we wouldn’t have to walk around the houses.
But due to a job change, they had to move, and that became the turning point that changed my life into a nightmare because Marla moved in next door.
At first, she seemed like a nice lady, about 60 years old. A sweet old soul, you know? Someone who wouldn’t bother anyone, would tend to her garden, and bake pies.
But no, Marla turned out to be completely different. The day after she moved in, she came over to our house with a pie.
“Hi, I’m your new neighbor, Marla,” she said. “I brought you a pie.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, but we’re in a bit of a hurry,” I said, taking Amalia by the hand to hurry out of the house.
“Can’t you spare 10 minutes to have tea with your new neighbor?” Marla exclaimed.
“No, sorry, I need to take my daughter to dance,” I replied. Amalia and I stepped out, and I closed the door, but Marla kept standing there.
“That’s really rude of you,” she said. “Decent people don’t behave like that.”
“If you’d come at any other time, I’d happily have tea with you, but right now, sorry, we don’t have time,” I said.
“Amalia, go sit in the car,” I told my daughter, and was about to follow her.
“Looks like your parents didn’t raise you properly,” Marla remarked. I stayed silent, although her comment really hurt. But I wasn’t about to stay quiet for her next remark.
“You probably raise your children poorly too,” she added. I turned around and gave her a stern look.
“If you say even one more word about my children, we’ll be having a very different conversation,” I said, then walked to the car, and Amalia and I left.
In the car’s rearview mirror, I saw Marla still standing by my house. After a moment, she left the pie on the doorstep and walked away.
That was our first encounter, but I could never have imagined that things would only get worse from there.
For some reason, Marla decided she knew better than anyone else and that I wanted to listen to her teach me how to live.
“Oh, why aren’t your kids in school?” she asked me one morning.
“I let them take the day off,” I replied.
“You’re not preparing them for adult life,” Marla commented.
The next day, she peeked over the fence into my backyard.
“Oh, why is your garden so small and shabby? Aren’t you the homeowner?” she said.
Then, I caught her rummaging through my trash.
“You feed your kids takeout?!” she asked indignantly. “They won’t know how to cook!”
At first, I just sighed and ignored her comments. I never liked arguing and wanted to have good relationships with all my neighbors, but it seemed like Marla was doing everything she could to provoke me.
One day, she leaned over the fence again, looking at my kids in shock, as if I didn’t know what they were doing.
“They’re jumping in puddles barefoot! They’ll get sick! They’ll catch something!” Marla shouted.
“They’re having fun. If it gets cold, they know they can go home and warm up,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“They’re just kids! They don’t understand anything!” Marla yelled.
“They’re 6 and 8, they understand just fine,” I replied.
“What kind of mother are you? You don’t care about your kids at all! You should’ve given them up if you can’t take care of them properly!” she yelled.
I set my cup on the table and walked over to the fence. “Do you even think about what you’re saying?” I shouted.
“I’m just worried about your kids,” Marla said.
“I can worry about my own kids, I’m their mom, and I know what’s best!” I shouted.
“Rude!” Marla screamed.
“Be thankful I didn’t slap you for saying that!” I yelled, then went inside.
Being a mom was the most important thing in my life. I loved my children deeply and wanted to give them the best life, the kind I never had.
I grew up in foster homes because my mom left me when I was little. I never knew what maternal love was, so I never let my children doubt my love for them, not even for a second.
Marla’s words dug into an old wound that never healed. Her comments about my parenting hurt the most, because I was trying my best for my kids.
After that conversation, some time passed, and Marla didn’t interfere with advice.
She’d occasionally treat my kids to homemade pastries but didn’t speak to me at all, probably offended.
But that was fine with me, at least I could live in peace for a little while. But my peace didn’t last long.
One day, I came home from work and saw Marla painting the stairs of my house… bright yellow.
“What are you doing?!” I yelled.
“I decided to help you,” Marla said.
“But I didn’t ask for your help!” I exclaimed.
“The best help is the kind you don’t ask for,” Marla replied.
“Are you kidding me? You’re doing something illegal! This is my house!” I screamed.
“Why are you freaking out?! I just wanted to help!” Marla said angrily. “These stairs looked awful, and you don’t have a husband who could do it.”
“If I need the stairs painted, I’ll hire someone, or do it myself,” I said.
“Well, now you won’t have to,” Marla said, turning back to the stairs.
“Are you mocking me?! Get off my property!” I screamed.
“Don’t complain, look at how nice the color is, your kids will love it,” Marla said, continuing to paint.
I grabbed the bucket with paint from her. “Get out,” I said.
“You don’t appreciate my kindness!” Marla huffed and walked back to her house.
I stared in horror at those bright yellow stairs, which looked like the sun had thrown up on them. At that moment, the kids came home from school.
“Oh my God, Mom, why did you paint the stairs this horrible color?” Amalia said in disgust.
“My favorite color is blue, you should’ve painted them that color,” Simon added.
“It wasn’t me, our neighbor did it. Get changed, and we’ll fix this nightmare,” I said, and we went inside.
The whole evening, instead of resting, we spent time repainting the stairs. I saw Marla glaring at us from her window, but I didn’t care. This was my house, and she had no right to do anything to it.
One ordinary day, while I was at work, I got a call from my neighbor, Sarah.
“Hello, Natalie, we saw that your door is open, are you home?” Sarah asked.
“No, thanks for telling me, I’ll be there soon,” I said.
After talking to Sarah, I immediately called the police. No one was supposed to be home at that time, and no one had a spare key, so someone must’ve broken into my house.
I also took time off work and headed home. Since I lived close to work, I arrived at the same time as the police. They went in first, and I followed behind.
“Ma’am, this woman says she knows you!” shouted the officer from the kitchen. I walked into the kitchen and saw Marla, already handcuffed.
“What the…?” I screamed.
“Natalie, tell them you know me!” Marla said.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?!” I shouted.
“I thought there was a gas leak,” Marla said.
“And you thought you could just walk in?! How did you even get in?!” I screamed.
“I had to break the door,” Marla replied.
“Are you completely out of your mind?!” I shouted.
“Ma’am, what should we do?” the officer asked.
“She broke into my house, take her away,” I said.
“I thought your kids were home! I was trying to save them!” Marla screamed.
“Why?! Why do you always stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?!” I screamed.
“Because I’m your mother!” Marla yelled.
“What?…” I asked, shocked.
“Yes, Natalie, I’m your mother,” Marla said.
I looked at the police officers, who stood bewildered, clearly not understanding what was happening, just like me, to be honest.
“I… sorry, I won’t press charges,” I said to the officers.
They sighed heavily and left, and I was left alone with Marla.
“What did you mean when you said you’re my mother?” I asked.
“I was young when I had you, I couldn’t handle it, and I had to give you up,” Marla said. “All I had left was your photo,” she added, handing me a photo she pulled from her pocket. It really was me. I had the same photo.
“Holy… you’re not joking.”
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Marla said.
“This… I don’t even know what to say,” I said.
“Now you understand why I acted the way I did? I wanted to make up for all those lost years, show you how to live better,” Marla said.
“Oh, no, I’m an adult, I don’t need to be raised anymore,” I said.
“But I want what’s best for you…” Marla said.
“You should’ve confessed everything,” I said. “But if you want to be in my life, you won’t meddle where you’re not asked.”
“Will you let me be in your life?” Marla asked.
“Only if you stop saying I’m a bad mom and offering advice or help,” I said.
“Okay, I promise,” Marla said. “I’m sorry, you’re not a bad mom, at least because you didn’t give up your kids,” Marla added.
“I can’t believe you treated me like this just because you were afraid to tell me,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Marla said.
“Tea?” I asked, and Marla nodded.
It was hard for me to believe that Marla was my mother. All my life, I’d wondered what my mom was like, and it turned out she lived next door, playing on my nerves like a real parent.
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