For months, I thought I’d lucked out with my neighbor’s kids—two teenagers who spent their Sunday mornings cleaning up the street like they were running for office. But when I caught one of them stashing something under a bush, I realized their “good deeds” weren’t exactly what they seemed.
As a woman in my 60s, I’ve seen a lot over the years in this neighborhood, from the good to the bad and everything in between. But seeing two teenagers, barely out of middle school, sweeping the sidewalks and picking up trash every Sunday? That gave me hope for the younger generation.
Every Sunday morning, I’d sit by my window with a cup of tea and watch them work hard—pushing brooms, hauling trash bags, making the street look pristine. It was impressive, and they reminded me of my own kids when they were younger, before they grew up and moved away. It was almost admirable.
One morning, while watering my plants, I spotted their mother, Grace, hurrying out of her house.
“Grace!” I called out, waving. “Your kids are doing a fantastic job cleaning up the neighborhood. You must be proud!”
Grace paused, giving me a strange look. She smiled politely and replied, “Oh, thank you… they’re good kids.” Her tone was off, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.
Over the weeks, I continued watching Becky and Sam—those were the names I thought I heard—working diligently each Sunday morning. I even offered them lemonade once, but they politely declined, saying they had to finish their task. I remember thinking how mature they seemed.
Then, last Sunday, something strange happened. As usual, Becky and Sam were out there, heads down, working their way along the street. But this time, I noticed something odd. Sam wasn’t just picking up trash—he was crouching near the big oak tree in front of my house, sweeping leaves aside, and carefully placing something under a bush.
Curious, I watched closely. He seemed secretive, glancing over his shoulder before moving on. My interest was piqued. What could he be hiding?
Once they left, I slipped on my gardening gloves and headed outside. I bent down, moving the leaves aside where Sam had been. My heart raced slightly—there’s something exciting about uncovering a mystery, even at my age.
And there it was: a small pile of coins. Quarters, dimes, and even a couple of shiny pennies. I frowned, confused. Why were they hiding money under a bush?
I kept looking and found more coins tucked behind the street sign, between bricks of the curb, even near the storm drain. By the end, I’d collected nearly five dollars.
I couldn’t figure out why they were hiding money. Were they up to something mischievous?
Later that afternoon, I saw Grace unloading groceries from her car. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to ask. I walked over, the coins jingling in my pocket.
“Grace!” I called out.
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