Linda eventually came to my door.
“You ruined my life,” she snapped.
“You took things that didn’t belong to you,” I replied.
She blamed her financial troubles and difficult divorce. I felt some sympathy, but it disappeared when she insisted I had plenty and could afford to lose a few things.
“My age doesn’t make my belongings yours,” I told her. “And my money doesn’t make your problems my responsibility.”
I hoped she would get help, but I made one thing clear: she wasn’t welcome at my door again.
A few weeks later, Linda moved away.
The neighborhood changed, too. We started watching each other’s deliveries, sharing alerts, and helping older residents arrange safer drop-offs.
Lily eventually received her markers, and she drew me a picture of myself holding a package while Linda ran from a police car. I framed it.
Later, I ordered another pair of blue slippers.
