When Martha woke to find her front door smeared with eggs and trash, she knew exactly who’d done it. Her cruel neighbor had finally snapped over her daily piano playing. But when her daughter found out, she set off a chain reaction that would unite everyone and teach one man an unforgettable lesson.
My name is Martha. I’m 67 years old, and for the past three years, I’ve lived alone in this little house on Maple Street. My husband, George, passed away after a short illness.
The doctors said it was his heart, but I think he just got tired. Tired of fighting and hurting. Either way, he slipped away quietly one morning, and ever since then, my house has been too quiet.
You know what’s the hardest part? It’s the silence. Suddenly, there are no more footsteps in the hallway, no more coffee brewing before I wake up, and no more humming from the garage while he tinkers with his tools.
The only thing left that reminds me of our life together is his old piano. He bought it when we were newlyweds, living in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. We couldn’t afford much back then, but George saved up for months to surprise me with it.
I cried when he rolled it through the door, this big beautiful thing that barely fit in our tiny living room. I’ve played it ever since. Every morning after breakfast, I sit by the window with a cup of coffee and play the same melody George loved, “Moon River.”
I don’t play it too loudly or with the intentions of making my neighbors hear it.
I play it for myself, just to remind myself that my George is still here with me. Music, for me, is like breathing. Without it, I don’t know who I’d be.
Most of my neighbors have always been kind about it. Some have even told me they enjoy hearing it drift through their open windows on warm afternoons. But a few weeks ago, things started to change when a new neighbor moved in next door.
His name is Kevin. From the very first day, he seemed unhappy about something. Maybe it was the move or life in general.
When I noticed that, I tried my best to be welcoming and friendly. I baked him cookies and left them on his porch with a little note. I thought he’d like the gesture, but I guess he didn’t.
He never said thank you. Instead, I started noticing him glaring at my house. If someone’s sprinkler was too loud, he complained.
If the mail truck idled too long in front of his driveway, he’d sigh dramatically and mutter under his breath. And whenever I played the piano, even softly, I’d catch him staring at my window with this look on his face. The kind of look that says, “How dare you exist within earshot of me?”
At first, I tried not to take it personally.
I mean, life’s too short to fight with neighbors, right? I told myself maybe he’s just going through something. I thought maybe the bitterness would die down once things in his life got better.
But then, one morning, my thoughts about him changed. I woke up early like I always do. The sun was just starting to peek through the curtains, and the birds were singing outside.
I made my usual cup of coffee, added a little cream, and went to open the front door to let some fresh air in. As soon as I stepped outside, I realized this was going to be a really, really bad day. My front door was smeared with eggs.
Thick, yellow yolks dripped down the white paint like tears. Broken shells clung to the wood, crunching under my slippers as I stepped closer. There was garbage scattered all across my porch, including crumpled paper, an empty soda can, and even a banana peel.
I almost puked when the smell hit me. The smell of raw eggs mixed with rotting trash. My hand immediately went to my nose and I took a few steps towards the driveway to get a clear view of what had happened.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring in complete disbelief. Who would do this? Why would anyone do this?
Then I noticed something.
A faint trail of cracked eggshells leading across the yard, over the little flower bed I’d planted last spring, straight to Kevin’s porch. My stomach did a flip as I realized what that meant. Could he really have done this?
Over piano music?
I wanted to believe there was some mistake, some other explanation. Maybe it was teenagers. Maybe it was a prank gone wrong.
But deep down, I already knew the truth. I stood there for another minute, just breathing, trying to calm the anger rising in my chest. Then I put my coffee cup down on the porch railing and walked slowly across the yard to Kevin’s door.
My heart was pounding against my chest. I raised my hand and knocked three times. I stood there on his porch, staring at the faded welcome mat under my feet.
My hands were trembling. After what felt like forever, the door swung open. Kevin stood there in wrinkled sweatpants and an old t-shirt, holding a coffee mug.
He looked like someone who’d just rolled out of bed and already hated the world. His hair was messy, his eyes were tired, and his expression was flat. “Kevin,” I began.
“Do you know anything about what happened to my front door?”
He took a long sip of his coffee. He didn’t even blink. Just stared at me like I was bothering him with something trivial.
Then, with the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he said, “Yeah. I did it.”
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. My brain couldn’t process it.
“You threw eggs at my door?”
He shrugged. Actually shrugged. Like it was nothing.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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