Our son, Tom, still comes around a lot. He’s a good boy, always making sure the lawn is cut and the gutters are clear. “You shouldn’t have to worry about these things, Mum,” he said, in that gentle yet firm tone of his. I smile and agree, knowing he has his own family and a job. I don’t want to overwhelm him, so I never complain.
The house is quiet now; it has been since Harold died. But it remains my sanctuary, filled with love and memories. The silence is comforting, like a warm blanket around my shoulders. Or at least, that’s how it was.
A few weeks ago, new neighbors moved into the house next door. A young couple, full of energy and noise. At first, it didn’t bother me. I’ve seen plenty of people come and go over the years. But these neighbors are different.
