My neighbor is 78, she lives alone. A kind and quiet woman. I noticed that a young man started coming to see her. It would have been nothing, but after he came I would hear screaming. I started to worry, so one day I knocked on the door. They’re quiet. And then the door opens and there’s this old lady wearing a bright red feather boa, huge sunglasses, and the kind of mischievous grin you’d expect from someone half her age.
“Can I help you, dear?” she asked, her lipstick just a little smudged. I blinked. “I… thought I heard shouting.” She laughed — a full, unrestrained laugh that echoed through the hallway. “Oh, that. We were rehearsing. I’ve joined a local theater group, and Daniel here—” she gestured to the young man stepping out from behind her, holding a stack of scripts — “is my scene partner.”
Daniel smiled sheepishly. “She’s playing a villain in our next play. We were working on the confrontation scene. Guess we got a little too into it.” I felt my face warm. “I… thought maybe something was wrong.”
The old lady leaned in conspiratorially. “Sweetheart, the only thing wrong is that I didn’t start acting 40 years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to practice my evil laugh.” She shut the door, and moments later I heard it — loud, theatrical, and glorious. That day, I learned two things: never assume the worst, and never underestimate a 78-year-old with a dream.