Every parent will nod along when I say you’ve got to keep an eye on your kids around other grown-ups. No matter who they are, it’s smart to stay alert. Some folks are even cautious with relatives.
Still, I thought even the most private person in our neighborhood was harmless. We live in a quiet little spot. It’s a cul-de-sac where lawns are neatly trimmed, and most folks give a wave or a nod as they pass by.
We know nearly everyone’s names, too. My home is warm and filled with small projects Gerry and I tackle together, like the veggie patch out front. A few months back, we even built a birdfeeder from the ground up.
Because of this, I knew my son would grow up loving to fix up his home and lend a hand to others. So what happened next only seemed a bit odd at first. At the end of our street sits a house that always gave me an uneasy feeling.
It’s an old place, draped in ivy, with overgrown hedges and oak trees that have gotten way too big. It’s the kind of spot kids might dare each other to visit on Halloween. Our neighbor, Ms.
Abby, lives there. She’s well into her 70s and keeps to herself, unlike some of our other older neighbors. She’s also a bit of a mystery, with her curtains always drawn.
Since she’s so different and doesn’t blend in, folks around here murmur about her now and then. Nothing too wild. I’d wondered about her life, but truthfully, I didn’t care enough to reach out.
Still, I brushed off anyone who even hinted at something shady about her. Ms. Abby could live however she pleased.
That’s when things shifted. One day after school, Gerry burst through the door and shouted, “Mom! You won’t guess this!
Ms. Abby invited me to bake cookies with her!”
I blinked, stirring the soup I was fixing for dinner. “Ms.
Abby? The woman at the end of the street?”
“Yeah! She said we’re making them from scratch.
Can I go, please?”
His question caught me off guard. “Ms. Abby… asked you… to her house?”
She didn’t strike me as the “baking with kids” type.
But Gerry nodded eagerly and said he was excited to learn. To be honest, I was solid at cooking, but my baking was hit-or-miss. So, I shrugged and agreed.
“Okay, but be polite and get home before dinner, alright?”
“Thanks, Mom! Later!” he said and darted out the door. Though I smiled at the thought of my son being kind to the one person in the neighborhood who seemed to have no one, it nagged at me.
Ms. Abby was a stranger to me, after all. I’d lived here since Gerry was one, and I’d never spoken to her.
But she was an old lady; what trouble could she really cause? That evening, Gerry came back with a plate of cookies. “Look!
Ms. Abby had me make these all by myself. I even watched the clock by the oven!” he said, beaming.
They were a bit charred, but I could see he was overjoyed. “Wow, they look awesome, buddy! Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah!
Her kitchen’s like something from a movie! All old stuff! And she said she can make anything I like.”
He shared all sorts of details over dinner, and by bedtime, I was so proud of him.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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