They say neighbors can either become your best friends or your worst enemies, but I never imagined mine would turn into both so quickly. What began as a simple favor spiraled into a bitter feud that shook me to my core.
Six years ago, when my husband Silas walked out of our lives, I never pictured I’d be standing in my kitchen, scrubbing the countertop for the third time in one morning, wondering how I had become this version of myself.
My name is Prudence. I’m 48, a single mother of two, and I work remotely for a call center to make ends meet. This wasn’t the life I’d dreamed of. Silas and I had grand plans—beautiful visions of the future we were supposed to build together. But somewhere along the way, those dreams crumbled. He left one night, claiming he needed “space to find himself.” Well, he found more than just space—he never came back, leaving me with our eight-year-old son, Damien, and our newborn daughter, Connie.
“Mom, can I have some cereal?” Connie’s innocent voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I forced a smile, reaching for the box.
Damien, now 14, shuffled into the kitchen with his earbuds in, barely looking up from his phone. “I’m going out to meet Jake, okay?” he mumbled.
“Homework first when you get back,” I called after him as he bolted out the door without a glance. Just another day of trying to juggle everything on my own.
That’s when Emery, my new neighbor, knocked on the door. She looked to be in her early 30s, and when I opened the door, her disheveled appearance said it all—she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were red and puffy, and exhaustion radiated from her.
“Prudence, can I ask you for a huge favor?” she croaked, sinking into my couch like she might collapse at any second.
I was caught off guard, but nodded. “Sure, what’s going on?”
“I threw a party last night, and now I’ve been called out of town for work. My house is a disaster, and I don’t have time to clean it up. Can you help me? I’ll pay you, of course.”
I hesitated. My shift started in a few hours, and I already had enough on my plate. But the promise of extra cash was tempting—money we could really use. “How much?” I asked cautiously.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” she blurted, her desperation obvious.
Against my better judgment, I agreed. “Alright, I’ll do it.”