My packages kept vanishing, and my seemingly sweet neighbor Linda always “found” them—opened, of course. At first, I tried to be patient. But when my limited-edition Christmas ornament disappeared, I’d had enough. It was time to leave her a holiday surprise she’d never forget.
There’s something uniquely maddening about seeing your name on a package, only to have someone else open it. When it happens repeatedly? You start plotting.
I moved to this neighborhood for peace, not a package war. But thanks to Linda, war is exactly what I got.
When my eight-year-old son Mike and I moved in, we were looking for a fresh start. After a tough divorce, we found the perfect little house in a quiet neighborhood, close to a park where we spent our mornings enjoying the crisp air. For the first few months, everything seemed perfect.
Then Linda entered the picture.
At first, she seemed like the picture of neighborly charm. On moving day, she showed up with a tray of cookies and a big, welcoming smile. “Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Linda, from next door. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She even offered to keep an eye on the house while I was out, casually adding, “Packages can go missing if they sit out too long. I’m happy to grab them for you.” It seemed thoughtful. At the time.
A few weeks later, things started going missing. First, it was a small toy I’d ordered for Mike. When I asked Linda about it, she beamed and handed it back—opened. “Oh! I thought it was mine!” she chirped, as if my name and address weren’t clearly printed on the box.
I brushed it off as an innocent mistake. But then it happened again. And again. Each time, she returned the packages opened, laughing it off with the same excuse. “Sweetie, I thought it was mine!”
The excuses grew thinner as the missing items became more valuable. Boots I’d saved up for. A winter coat for Mike. Each time, the package mysteriously landed at Linda’s house and was “mistakenly” opened.
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