After moving to a quiet town, I never expected my gruff neighbor’s rebellious daughter to shatter my window and my perception of their family.
What were they hiding behind those cold, closed doors?
After my divorce, I moved to a small town, eager for a fresh start.
My new house, while far from perfect, had charm.
It had a weathered porch, blue shutters, and a neighborhood that seemed friendly enough.
Except for Andrew, my next-door neighbor. Gruff and aloof, he rarely spoke to anyone, and his only company was his teenage daughter, Cora.
Cora was hard to miss. With short hair, scraped hands, and an ever-present basketball, she seemed to live in her own world.
One afternoon, I spotted her practicing in their yard, her sneakers squeaking against the pavement as she dribbled with fierce determination.
“Hi there,” I called, stepping closer.
Her glare hit me like a cold wind. Before I could say another word, she launched the basketball. I had no time to react as it sailed over the fence and smashed through my living room window.
“Great shot,” I said, biting back my frustration.
Cora smirked.
“What can someone like you tell me anyway? You can’t even manage your own windows.”
And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the house.
Later, ball in hand, I knocked on their door. Andrew answered with annoyance on his face.
“Your daughter broke my window,” I said, holding up the ball.
He glanced at it and shrugged.
“If she broke it, she’ll deal with the consequences. I’m raising her to handle herself when people stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
His tone left no room for discussion.
“Right,” I muttered, walking back to my house.
I glanced over my shoulder at Andrew’s door. Something about him felt impenetrable, as though every word he spoke was meant to keep people at arm’s length.
Whatever it was, it had shaped him and turned Cora into a sharp-edged reflection of that pain.
There was more to their story, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
***
The next morning, I wandered into the local bakery. As I browsed the shelves, debating between a crusty baguette and a cinnamon roll, my eye caught a familiar figure. Cora was crouched near the pastries, her backpack open.
She glanced around nervously before stuffing a couple of turnovers inside.
The shop owner, a wiry man with sharp eyes, started moving toward her, suspicion written all over his face. Acting quickly, I stepped between them and raised my hand.
“Those pastries are mine,” I said cheerfully, pulling out some cash. “I’ll pay for them now.”
The shop owner hesitated, his gaze flickering between me and Cora, before shrugging and returning to the counter.
I grabbed a baguette for myself, paid, and headed outside.
Cora was sitting on a wooden bench nearby, hunched over, her knees drawn up. Her face was smudged with what looked like dirt or maybe tears. She wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, clearly trying to compose herself.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down beside her and handing her one of the pastries.
“I hear these are pretty good. You should try one.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
