I’m 35, and most days it feels like I’m running this household alone. My husband, Mark, works constantly. He leaves before the boys wake up and usually slips in just in time to say goodnight. That leaves me managing everything: school mornings, snacks, homework, dinner, showers, bedtime… repeat.
And honestly? My kids aren’t the problem.
Liam, nine, and Noah, seven, love being outside. Bikes, tag, soccer balls—they run, laugh, and play. They don’t break things, invade yards, or touch cars. They’re just… kids. On a family street, that should be fine.
But then there’s Deborah.
She lives directly across from us. Late fifties, gray bob, immaculately dressed, yard pristine enough to be in a magazine. And she watches my kids like they’re trespassing criminals.
Scooters? Curtains twitch. Soccer ball? Silhouette in the storm door. Playground? Glares and sighs.
The first confrontation came months ago. She marched across the street while the boys kicked a ball on the strip of grass outside our house.
“Excuse me,” she said, tight-lipped.
“Hi,” I replied. “Something wrong?”
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