I’m Claire, 41, and after my husband’s death from illness, I felt like life had drained me dry. We battled his disease with endless hospital visits, losing our charming home to medical bills. I moved into my late grandma’s old apartment, a rent-free refuge with creaky floors and a faint smell of spices. It was a place to heal, but my neighbor, Megan, made my grief harder with her careless ways. The thin walls let in her loud music, but I clung to the hope of a fresh start, until her trash became my burden.
Megan moved in next door, all bright lipstick and jingling bracelets, like she stepped out of a fashion ad. She barely glanced at me in the hall, too busy on her phone about spin classes and oat milk lattes. I could’ve overlooked her, but then I found a trash bag by my door, smelling of old curry. Thinking it was an error, I tossed it in the chute. The next morning, a soggy takeout container stained my grandma’s floral mat. I cleaned it, annoyed, but by day five, four trash bags reeked outside my door, and I saw Megan’s pattern.
I faced her in the corridor, keeping calm. “Megan, your trash is by my door,” I said. She smiled, saying, “Just for a sec, I’ll get it.” She didn’t. More came—spoiled veggies, coffee grounds, even a diaper, though she had no kids. I tried knocking, leaving notes, texting, but she dodged with lies: she was busy, it wasn’t hers, or the building managed it. She stopped replying, counting on my exhaustion. Grief had me worn, jobless, and lonely, and she preyed on that weakness.
I thought about the landlord, but he ignored my broken window, so trash seemed pointless. One evening, after a tiring shift at the bakery, I saw three trash bags leaking sludge by my door. I stepped over them, done cleaning her mess, and let them stay. By day four, the smell was foul, and neighbors posted complaints online, sharing photos with Megan’s name on labels. She still tiptoed past, ignoring it all. On day five, the fire inspector came, furious at the pile. “Who’s this from?” he demanded. I opened my door, saying, “Next door’s.”
Megan appeared, trash in hand, stunned. “I’ll move it,” she mumbled. “Clean it now!” he ordered. She scrubbed in gloves, neighbors watching, some filming. Her face was scarlet. She posted a cold apology online, and the landlord warned her of eviction if it happened again. The hall stayed clean. A week later, her angry note came: “You made me a villain! I was keeping it neat!” I laughed, a spark of joy returning. Meeting my neighbor Lila, who smelled of vanilla, she said, “You look happier, Claire.” I nodded, my home mine again, grief easing.
