I always thought my neighbor, Courtney, admired my garden. She’d started planting similar flowers, choosing matching colors and designs—flattering, right? I was proud of it, after all. My garden wasn’t just a hobby; it was my therapy. It was the one place where I could feel completely at peace, my hands in the dirt, shaping the world around me. Every plant, every bloom felt like an extension of myself.
Gardening isn’t just a task; it’s a craft. I’d spent countless hours learning about the perfect soil, the best light for each flower, and which plants complemented each other. My yard was a reflection of my personality—carefully curated and thoughtfully arranged. Every morning, I’d stand outside with my coffee, watching how the sunlight touched my roses, adjusting my approach based on the way the day unfolded.
So, when I noticed Courtney planting some of the same flowers I had, I thought it was just a coincidence. A few tulips, maybe some lavender—nothing too out of the ordinary. I told myself she was just inspired by my work. After all, gardening is meant to inspire, right?
But soon enough, I began to see more and more. It wasn’t just a few plants here and there. Her yard looked eerily similar to mine. It was the same colors, the same arrangements—almost a carbon copy. Even the decorative stones I had spent hours handpicking from a specialty shop downtown showed up in her garden.
I tried to brush it off at first, thinking it was a coincidence, but the more I saw, the more unsettled I became. There was no way she could’ve just “coincidentally” chosen the same plants, in the same places, in the same layout. It felt… wrong. Something wasn’t right.
I needed to test my theory. So, I did something drastic. I went to the nursery and bought the one flower I hated most—an orange marigold. It clashed with the soft, delicate tones of my garden, but I didn’t care. I planted it smack in the middle of my yard, where it would stand out like a sore thumb. Then, I waited.
A week later, I stepped outside, coffee in hand, and nearly dropped my mug. There it was, right in the middle of Courtney’s yard: the exact same orange marigold. My blood ran cold. This wasn’t just some coincidence—Courtney was copying me. Worse, she was paying attention to every little detail.
Two days later, that marigold was gone. She’d seen that I noticed, and in her haste, she’d pulled it up. But it was clear now: she was watching me.
Determined not to let her continue invading my space, I decided to move my gardening to the back of my yard. Behind the fence. Out of sight. I would work under the cover of the porch light, tending to my plants in the evenings when she couldn’t see me. I even started taking my tea on the back patio instead of the front porch, just to avoid her fake small talk and too-bright smile.
It worked… for a while.
Then came the storm.
The wind howled, rattling the windows, and rain pummeled the roof like stones being thrown from the sky. The trees creaked and groaned, and I could hear branches snapping in the distance. By the time dawn broke, everything was wrecked. I stepped outside into the soggy, muddy yard, heart sinking as I looked at the damage. My favorite ceramic pot was shattered into sharp blue pieces, branches were scattered across the lawn, and worst of all—my fence was gone.
The once-sturdy wooden slats that had separated my yard from Courtney’s were now a broken mess, lying in a heap. There was no longer any barrier between us, no privacy.
I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair, knowing it would take a lot of time and money to fix it. But I couldn’t afford to let Courtney have another chance to spy on me.
As I walked toward the fallen fence, something caught my eye—a tiny red light glowing from the wreckage. At first, I thought it was just a reflection, but no. The light was steady, purposeful. My heart skipped a beat.
I knelt down and followed the light, and there it was—hidden beneath the broken fence— a tiny camera, pointed directly at my garden. My stomach churned.
Courtney had been spying on me. Watching my every move.
I stood up, blood boiling, hands shaking, but I was determined to confront her. I didn’t waste time thinking. I stormed across the yard, the cold grass biting at my ankles. I barely felt it as I marched straight to her door, pounding on it with so much force that I thought the frame might crack.
Moments passed before the door opened.
Courtney stood there, blinking rapidly, her lips stretching into a too-polite smile. Her eyes were wide with panic.
“Oh, hey!” she said, voice a little too high-pitched. “Everything alright?”
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. Holding the tiny camera in my hand, I shoved it in her face. “Care to explain why I found this hidden in our fence?”
Her smile faltered, and she hesitated for a second before offering a nervous chuckle. “That’s… that’s just our security system. For safety.”
I didn’t buy it. “Funny how it was only pointing at my yard,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes.
Courtney swallowed, her grip tightening on the doorframe. “It wasn’t like that. I swear,” she stammered, her voice cracking.
I stepped forward, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Then why is your garden an exact copy of mine? Down to the plants I discarded?”
Her gaze fell to the ground, like a guilty child caught in a lie. “I—I just admired your style,” she whispered.
“Liar,” I muttered under my breath.
Her shoulders flinched, but she didn’t say anything more.
I was furious, but at that moment, something inside me shifted. I was exhausted. This had gone on long enough. I turned on my heel and walked away, the camera still clenched in my hand. I wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easily, but I knew I had to plan my next move carefully.
For the next few days, I plotted my revenge. Courtney had been spying on me, copying my every move, thinking she could get away with it. Fine. If she wanted to copy me, then I’d give her something to copy—but with a twist.
One afternoon, I made sure to drag a large bucket into the middle of my yard. The weight of her gaze was palpable as I worked, stirring a mixture of salt, vinegar, and other harmless-looking ingredients. This concoction would destroy her plants, but my garden would be safe. I hid another bucket of plain water behind the shed, just in case.
I worked slowly, making a spectacle of it. I pretended to check the soil, nodding to myself like I was satisfied with the mixture. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her standing at the window, watching me. She didn’t know what I was up to—but she was about to find out.
Three days later, her garden was dead. Every single plant, shriveled and brown, the once lush grass now dry and brittle. The vines that had once been so vibrant were now limp and lifeless.
Then, just as I expected, she came knocking on my door.
Courtney stood there, looking like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were puffy, the skin beneath them dark and tired. Her hair was messier than usual, strands falling from her loose ponytail. She didn’t even have the energy for a forced smile.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice small, fragile.
I crossed my arms, standing my ground. “Go ahead.”
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting between the wilted flowers in her yard and the fence that had once hidden our secrets. Finally, she sighed. “I know I messed up,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I copied your garden. I watched you. And now… now my yard is ruined.”
I should’ve felt victorious. Should’ve felt satisfaction in seeing the consequences of my plan. But something about the way she spoke, the exhaustion in her voice, made my heart tighten.
I frowned. “Why did you do it?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Courtney looked down, hands twisting in front of her. “Because my husband made me.”
“Made you?” I repeated, confused.
She looked up at me, her eyes full of pain. “He always told me I wasn’t good enough. That I didn’t take care of the house the way I should. He said I should be more like you.”
I felt a knot form in my stomach. “Courtney…”
She shook her head quickly, tears welling in her eyes. “If I didn’t do it, he’d threaten to leave. And I was scared.”
For the first time, I saw her—not as the obsessive neighbor, but as a woman struggling under the weight of expectations. I softened.
“You don’t have to live like that,” I said gently. “You deserve your own life. Your own space. Your own garden.”
She wiped away a tear, smiling weakly. “I don’t know how.”
I glanced at her yard—the one she’d tried so hard to replicate—and then at mine. “Then let’s start with this,” I said, gesturing to the soil. “Come on. Let’s make something that’s truly yours.”
And so we did.
Months later, we stood side by side, admiring her garden—not a copy of mine, but something uniquely hers. The roses were her favorite shade, not mine. The stones she’d chosen herself lined the path. The vines twisted in a way that felt natural, not forced.
Courtney smiled for the first time in a long while, breathing deeply. “You know,” she said, her voice lighter now, “it’s been a month since I kicked him out.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “Good,” I said, grinning. “One less weed in the garden.”
