My husband works a lot, so most days it’s just me with our two boys — seven and nine. They’re good kids. They love being outside: bikes, tag, running around with the neighborhood kids. And honestly, I’m glad. In the age of tablets, I’ll take loud kids outside over quiet kids glued to screens. They don’t play in front of anyone’s house. They stick to the little playground down the street, or near our place, or by their friends’ homes. Normal kid stuff. But our neighbor across the street, Deborah, acts like my kids exist to ruin her life. If they laugh too loud, she yanks her blinds open like she’s catching criminals. If they run down the sidewalk, she stares at them like they’re animals.
She’s complained before, too. “It’s the screaming,” she told me once, smiling like she was being polite. “CHILDREN SHOULDN’T BE SCREAMING OUTSIDE.” I just stared at her. Like… what do you want them to do? Walk in circles and whisper? I tried ignoring her. I didn’t want drama. Then last week my oldest called and whispered, “Mom… there are police here.” My stomach dropped. I ran outside and saw two officers by the playground with my boys and a couple other kids. My seven-year-old looked terrified. My nine-year-old kept glancing at me like he’d done something wrong. One officer said, “We got a call about unattended children. The caller also mentioned possible drugs.”
I swear I stopped breathing. “Drugs?” I said. “They’re seven and nine.” I explained everything as calmly as I could. The officers realized it was nonsense and started to leave. But before they did, one of them said, “There’s not really anything we can do about the caller. She’s within her rights.” Across the street, I saw Deborah’s curtain twitch. I could practically feel her smiling. Fine, I thought. If she wanted to play, I’d handle it my way. So the next morning, I went to the store.
