When Maria and Luis moved in next door, it felt like a blessing—finally, neighbors we loved. My wife Teresa bonded instantly with Maria, sharing secrets and sorrow, laughter and recipes. Their garden flourished like a magazine spread—until it began to die. Plants uprooted, soil poisoned. Sabotage.
Luis confided during dinner, masking heartbreak with forced smiles. Maria stayed quiet, her eyes shadowed. Oddly, the timing matched Teresa’s new ritual—watering our garden at midnight. She claimed moonlight made the plants thrive.
Suspicious, I watched one night. Teresa didn’t tend our garden—she knelt in theirs. Her movements were gentle, purposeful. The next morning, I asked softly, “What were you doing over there?”
Caught off guard, Teresa confessed. She was secretly caring for their damaged garden—placing salt to ward off pests, replanting lost blooms—hoping Maria wouldn’t leave. Maria felt like the sister she never had.
Her devotion stunned me. It was madness. Beautiful madness.
We didn’t tell Maria. Instead, we installed security cameras.
Three nights later, we caught the culprits—Todd and Claire, two houses down. They vandalized in silence. The footage exposed them. Justice came swiftly. Fines, repairs, apologies. Maria and Luis stayed.
Weeks later, as lavender lined their walkway, I watched Teresa laugh in the sunlight. She’d saved more than flowers. She’d saved something human.
“You’re kind of amazing,” I said.
She smiled, eyes sleepy with peace. “Only kind of?”
I kissed her forehead. “The best kind.”
