My name is Laura, I’m 38 years old, and I live in Bloomington, Indiana. When I moved into my townhouse, I promised myself I’d keep to my own life. New place, new routines, minimal involvement. That plan lasted about two weeks. That’s when I met Harold. He lived next door, late seventies, slow walk, soft voice. The kind of neighbor people describe as “harmless.” One morning, he asked if I could help carry groceries inside because his hands were shaking. It took five minutes. He thanked me like I’d saved his life. The next day, he asked again.
Then it became daily. Trash bins. Mail. Changing lightbulbs. Heating soup. Small things, always framed as temporary. I work from home, so I was “around anyway.” I didn’t mind—at first. It felt good to be useful. Harold told me stories while I helped. About his late wife. About being lonely. About how neighbors used to look out for each other. I felt guilty anytime I considered saying no. But something started to feel off. He always knew when I was home. Commented if I left early or came back late. Once, he mentioned a package I’d received before I even opened my door. Another time, he asked why a man had stayed over the night before.
I laughed it off. Told myself I was being paranoid. The truth came out by accident. I ran into another neighbor while walking my dog. She asked if Harold had me “helping him yet.” Her tone wasn’t friendly—it was warning. She told me Harold had done this before. With other women. Slowly pulling them into daily routines, leaning on guilt, gathering personal details. Not illegal. Just invasive. Then she told me something worse. Harold wasn’t as helpless as he pretended. He drove. He managed his own errands when no one was watching. The shaking only appeared when someone was nearby. That night, Harold knocked on my door like usual.
I didn’t answer. The next day, he texted asking if I was upset. I didn’t reply. The day after, he left a note saying he was “worried” about me. I finally told him I couldn’t help anymore. He didn’t thank me for everything I’d done. He didn’t apologize. He said I was “ungrateful” and that people like me “don’t care about the elderly.” By the next week, he’d found someone new. I felt stupid. Used. Angry at myself more than him. But I learned something important: kindness without boundaries doesn’t stay kindness. It becomes access. And not everyone who asks for help is asking in good faith. I didn’t stop helping people after Harold. I just stopped helping without listening to my instincts.
