I met my neighbor, Mary, the day after we moved in. Everything was going well until she became fixated on my basement and repeatedly asked about it. What was there in the basement?
And why was she so curious about it? Moving into a new home should feel like a fresh start. New walls, new memories, and a place to make entirely your own.
That’s what I had hoped for when we bought this charming, two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. But fate had other plans. Being a wife and a mother while working a full-time job is a balancing act.
Some days, I felt like I had it all under control. But on other days, I felt like my world was falling apart. I thought moving into this house would be the start of something good.
Our new home was nestled in a lovely, tree-lined neighborhood. It was the kind of place where people waved at you from their porches and kids rode their bikes until the streetlights flickered on. It felt safe.
Our new neighbors were welcoming, and some even stopped by to introduce themselves on the very first day. But one of them stood out the most. Mary.
She was a woman in her fifties, and she reminded me of my mother the first time I met her. It wasn’t just about her age. It was the way she carried herself that made you feel at ease.
The day after we moved in, she knocked on my door with a freshly baked pie in her hands. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said with a kind smile. “Oh, wow, thank you!
That’s so sweet of you.” I took the pie, still warm in its dish. “You didn’t have to do this.”
She waved me off. “Nonsense.
Moving is hard work. And a little pie never hurt anyone.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I chuckled. “I’m Lara, by the way.”
“Mary.
It’s good to meet you, dear.”
We chatted for a while about the neighborhood, the best grocery stores, and even where to get a good cup of coffee. She was friendly and engaging and I thought I was so lucky to have her as my neighbor. After that, we’d exchange waves whenever we saw each other.
At first, I thought she was just naturally kind. But over time, I started to wonder if she was expecting something in return. Or was she just… lonely?
A few weeks later, she stopped by again. This time she was carrying a dish covered in foil. “I made too much lasagna,” she said.
“Figured you and your family might like some.”
“Oh, Mary, you don’t have to keep spoiling us like this.”
She smiled, but there was something behind it. Something like a flicker of sadness. “I like to cook for people,” she said.
“My kids are grown, and my husband… well, he’s not around much.”
I invited her in, and we sat at the kitchen table. “You like the house?” she asked, stirring her spoon in slow circles. “I do.
It’s perfect for us.”
“I thought so too,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then she glanced at me. “Have you set up the basement yet?”
“Not really,” I said, unsure why she’d asked about that part of the house.
“It’s mostly storage right now.”
She nodded. “It’s a great space. Lots of potential.”
There was a pause before she said her next sentence.
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