Every parent knows you have to keep your eyes open — even in a quiet cul-de-sac where everyone waves, lawns match, and the biggest drama is whose dog dug up whose flowerbed. I thought our street was safe. Predictable. Harmless.
And then my son Gerry started visiting the one house nobody went near.
At the end of our street sits an ivy-covered relic with branches hanging like they’re guarding secrets. Kids whispered about it every Halloween. Curtains always closed. Lights barely on. And the owner, Ms. Abby — a woman in her seventies — kept to herself.
I figured she was just private. Strange, maybe. But harmless.
Until the day Gerry burst through the door shouting:
“Mom! Ms. Abby invited me to bake cookies!”
I actually stopped stirring dinner.
“Ms. Abby? That Ms. Abby?”
He was already halfway back out the door, begging to go bake from scratch. I said yes — reluctantly — thinking it was sweet of him to include the loneliest person on our street.
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