I was beyond exhausted—the kind of tired that makes you question if you’ve brushed your teeth or remembered to feed the dog.
Ever since the twins were born, my days had blurred into a never-ending cycle of diaper changes, feeding schedules, and sleepless nights. The last thing I needed was another problem to deal with. But when I stepped outside that morning, I found my car completely covered in eggs.
At first, I thought it was a random prank. Who wouldn’t? Halloween was around the corner, and maybe some kids had gotten a little too excited. I sighed, too tired to even be upset, and grabbed a sponge and bucket, ready to clean up the mess.
But just as I started scrubbing, my neighbor Brad came strutting over with that smug grin of his.
“That was me,” he said, almost proudly. “Your car was ruining the view of my Halloween decorations.”
I blinked at him, trying to process his words through the fog of exhaustion. My car? Ruining his view? His ridiculous display of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, and oversized pumpkins?
Furious, but too tired to even start an argument, I just nodded, biting back the urge to say something I might regret. I didn’t have the energy for a confrontation, but in that moment, I silently promised myself that I’d find a way to teach Brad a lesson.
He had no idea who he was messing with.
Don’t get me wrong, Lily and Lucas were my sweet little babies, but taking care of two newborns mostly by myself was incredibly hard. I hadn’t slept a full night in months. Halloween was coming, and the whole neighborhood was excited—except me.
I didn’t have the energy to decorate, let alone get into the festive spirit.
Then, there was Brad.
Brad took Halloween way too seriously. Every year, he turned his house into a huge haunted attraction with gravestones, skeletons, big jack-o’-lanterns, and more.
He loved the attention and would smile proudly whenever someone complimented his decorations.
The entire block loved it, but I was too exhausted to care about Brad’s haunted house.
One October morning, things started to fall apart.
I went outside, carrying Lily on one hip and holding Lucas in my arm, when I noticed something. My car was covered in eggs! The eggshells were stuck to the gooey mess, dripping down the windshield like some gross breakfast gone wrong.
“Are you serious?” I muttered, staring at the mess.
The night before, I had parked in front of Brad’s house. I didn’t have much choice since it was easier to park closer to my door with the twins’ stroller.
At first, I thought it was a prank. But when I saw egg splatters near Brad’s porch, I knew it had to be him.
Brad had done this.
Even though he didn’t own the street, Brad acted like he controlled the curb during Halloween.
Furious, I marched over to his house and knocked on the door, maybe harder than I should have, but I didn’t care anymore.
“What?” Brad opened the door with his usual smug expression, crossing his arms.
His house was already decorated. There were cobwebs, plastic skeletons, and a witch sitting on a chair. It was all too much.
I wasted no time. “Did you see who egged my car?”
Without blinking, Brad replied, “I did it. Your car was blocking the view of my decorations.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You egged my car because it was parked in front of your house? You didn’t ask me to move it—you just trashed it?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “How can people see my display if your car is in the way?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you serious?”
Brad nodded, still looking pleased with himself. “I’m the Halloween King. People come from all over to see my decorations. You’re always parked there. It’s inconsiderate and ruins the vibe.”
I was juggling two newborns, barely holding it together, and he was talking about ruining the vibe?
“Well, sorry if my life interferes with your spooky setup,” I snapped. “I’ve got newborn twins, Brad.”
“I know,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Maybe park somewhere else.”
“I park there because it’s easier with the babies and the stroller!”
Brad shrugged again. “Not my problem. You can park there after Halloween.”
I stood there, speechless, my anger boiling inside. But being so tired, I couldn’t even argue anymore.
“Fine,” I snapped, and stormed back inside, shaking with anger and disbelief.
As I washed the egg off my car, something clicked. Brad wasn’t just an annoying neighbor—he was a bully. And I had had enough. If he wanted to play dirty, fine. I could play smarter.
Later that night, while rocking Lily to sleep, an idea hit me. Brad’s weakness was his pride. He needed his haunted house to be the best. I didn’t have the energy for a fight, but revenge? That, I could handle.
The next day, I casually strolled over to Brad’s yard while he was adding more decorations.
“Hey, Brad,” I said, faking cheerfulness. “I’ve been thinking. It was inconsiderate of me to block your display. Have you thought about upgrading it?”
He looked suspicious. “Upgrade?”
“Yeah, with things like fog machines or ghost projectors. Your setup is great, but those would really impress people.”
His eyes lit up. I knew I had him.
I suggested brands I had researched—terrible machines with awful reviews. But he didn’t need to know that.
“You think so?” he asked, already planning his next move.
“Oh, definitely. You’d be the talk of the neighborhood.”
Satisfied, I walked away, waiting for Halloween.
When Halloween night came, Brad’s house looked like a scene from a horror movie. He had gone all out, as I expected.
Crowds gathered to admire his setup, and Brad was in the middle of it, enjoying the attention.
I watched from my porch, feeling like a villain in a movie. His display looked impressive—until it didn’t.
Right on cue, the fog machine sputtered and started spraying water like a garden hose. The crowd gasped, and kids laughed.
Brad rushed to fix it, but then his ghost projector malfunctioned. Instead of a spooky ghost, it showed a strange blob, making the kids laugh even more.
Then, one of his giant inflatables collapsed, rolling across the yard. Some teenagers, seeing the disaster, threw eggs at his house for fun.
Brad was frantic, running around trying to save his haunted house, but it was too late. His Halloween display had turned into a joke.
The next morning, just as I was feeding Lucas, there was a knock at the door. Brad stood there, looking defeated.
“I, uh, wanted to apologize,” he mumbled. “I overreacted.”
I crossed my arms, waiting. “Yeah, you did.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t realize how hard it must be with the twins. I’m sorry.”
I let him squirm for a bit. “Thanks for apologizing, Brad. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
He nodded quickly. “It won’t.”
As he turned to leave, I couldn’t help but add, “Funny how things work out, huh?”
Brad had no response.
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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