My name is Brian, I’m 36 years old, and I live in a quiet suburb outside Des Moines, Iowa. I moved into my townhouse two years ago hoping for exactly that—quiet. I work from home, keep to myself, and don’t cause problems. I always thought being a good neighbor just meant being polite and minding your business.
It started with a small favor.
One winter morning, my neighbor, Mrs. Caldwell, knocked on my door. She was probably in her late sixties and looked flustered. She asked if I could help carry a few groceries inside because her knee was acting up. I didn’t hesitate. It took maybe five minutes. She thanked me repeatedly and even tried to give me a cookie. I thought that was the end of it.
The next week, she asked if I could take her trash bins to the curb. “Just this once,” she said, smiling. I did it. Then it became twice a week. Then every pickup day. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.
After that, the requests multiplied. Picking up prescriptions. Adjusting the thermostat. Checking her mail when it rained. She stopped asking politely and started assuming. If I didn’t answer the door right away, she’d knock harder. Once, she let herself into my backyard to ask why I hadn’t brought her bins in yet.
I tried hinting. I mentioned being busy with work. She’d laugh and say, “You’re home all day anyway.” That stung more than I expected. My time had become invisible because I was available.
Things escalated when she started texting me daily. Morning reminders. Afternoon check-ins. Evening complaints if something hadn’t been done yet. When I didn’t respond fast enough, she’d leave voicemails sounding hurt, like I’d betrayed her.
I finally told her I couldn’t keep doing everything. I said I was happy to help occasionally, but I wasn’t able to be her daily support system. Her expression changed instantly. She said she “didn’t realize I was keeping score” and that she thought I was “one of the good ones.” By the next day, she was telling other neighbors I’d abandoned her.
Now the looks I get are different. Short. Cold. Like I failed some unspoken test. Mrs. Caldwell no longer knocks, but she stands on her porch when I leave, watching. I feel trapped between guilt and resentment.
All of this—from one five-minute favor. I wanted to be kind, not conscripted. Somewhere along the way, being helpful turned into being obligated. And I’m still trying to figure out how to be a good neighbor without losing my peace.
