My name’s Gavin. I live with my wife, Becca, and our two kids, Liam and Ava, in a quiet apartment building. Life’s mostly peaceful — except for one neighbor: Marge in 3B. She acts like the building is her personal domain, and we’re her staff. From petty notes about our kids’ noise to scolding Becca for shaking out a towel on our own balcony, she always finds something to complain about.
One day, Ava tripped over one of Marge’s plant stands cluttering the hallway and scraped her hand. Becca gently asked if she’d consider moving them. Marge snapped, blaming Ava for not “watching where she walked.” Then came more — a complaint about Liam’s scooter in the parking lot, and banging on our door at 7 p.m. demanding we stop the laundry because it “hummed too loudly.”
Then came our small rebellion. After a long day at the mall, Marge boxed in our car and yelled for us to move faster. I calmly locked the doors, told Becca we weren’t leaving, and we all walked back toward the food court for dinner. We enjoyed pizza while Marge fumed. It wasn’t about the parking — it was about showing we wouldn’t be pushed around anymore.
Weeks later, I saw her outside with a lonely takeout bag. I told her her behavior scared my kids. She sighed and muttered, “It’s lonely, ordering Indian food for one,” then walked away. I stood there, holding Liam’s lunchbox, unsure whether I felt smug or sorry. Maybe she’d finally seen the damage she’d done — to us, and to herself.