I’m Ellen, 42, and after my husband’s passing, I moved into my late uncle’s old apartment, seeking peace. His illness drained us, forcing me to sell our home with its big oak tree. The rent-free unit, with its noisy pipes and musty air, was my lifeline, though grief made every annoyance huge. My new neighbor, Vanessa, turned my quiet retreat into a battleground with her trash. Her loud phone calls echoed through our thin walls, but I hoped to heal, until her garbage became my problem.
Vanessa arrived, all flashy scarves and quick steps, like she belonged in a trendy café. She barely nodded at me, too caught up in calls about barre classes and green juices. I’d have ignored her, but one morning, a trash bag sat by my door, smelling of old tacos. I tossed it, thinking it was a mix-up. The next day, a leaky soda can soaked my uncle’s striped rug. I cleaned it, but by day six, three trash bags stank up the hall, and I knew Vanessa was dumping them there on purpose.
I caught her in the hall, staying polite. “Vanessa, your trash is by my door,” I said. She grinned, saying, “Oh, just for a moment, I’ll grab it.” She never did. More came—rotten eggs, plastic wrappers, even a diaper, though she had no kids. I knocked, left notes, texted, but she made excuses: she was late, it wasn’t hers, or the building dealt with it. She stopped answering, betting on my grief-worn state. I was tired, broke, and alone, and she used that against me.
I considered the landlord, but he ignored my stuck door, so trash seemed low priority. One night, after a long shift at the diner, I found four trash bags spilling goo by my door. I stepped over them, refusing to clean, and let them pile up. By day three, the stench was bad, and neighbors posted online, sharing photos with Vanessa’s name on bags. She still skipped past, ignoring it. On day five, the fire inspector arrived, livid. “Whose mess is this?” he yelled. I opened my door, saying, “It’s from next door.”
Vanessa walked up, trash in hand, frozen. “I’ll move it,” she said. “Clean it now!” he barked. She scrubbed, gloved, as neighbors watched, some recording. Her face burned red. She posted a curt apology online, and the landlord warned her of eviction for another slip. The hall stayed spotless. A note came later, Vanessa’s rage: “You turned them against me! I was being tidy!” I laughed, feeling alive. My neighbor Sam, smelling of cedar, said, “Good to see you smile, Ellen.” I nodded, my home peaceful, my heart lighter.
