The old lady next door lives alone, and she’s been mooching off my meals every day. One night, she suddenly fell ill. Out of kindness, I took her to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer. Before I could even comfort her, her overly protective son accused me of poisoning her with my cooking. He went so far as to push me down a flight of stairs. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the moment when Mrs. Ruth Johnson had tagged me in the Nextdoor Community Group, asking me to bring her food. 0 “Sarah, are you there?” Early in the morning, Mrs. Ruth Johnson, my elderly neighbor, tagged me in the Nextdoor Community Group right on time. I stared at her message on my phone, a little dazed. Didn’t her son push me down the stairs? How can I still be seeing messages in the group? I quickly pinched my arm. Nope, I was still alive—and back to when Mrs. Johnson had just started living alone. “Sarah, I know you can see this. Can you open the door? I need to talk to you.” “You can just tell me in the group chat. I’m not really available right now.” I tried to make my reply sound as casual as possible. Mrs. Johnson posted again in the Nextdoor Community Group. “Sarah, you’re such a kind soul. My gas is out, and I don’t know how to refill the tank. Could you bring me a meal?” Her tone was so pitiful. In my past life, I was fooled by that frail and helpless act, which led me to take care of her—ultimately costing me my life! This time around, there’s no way I’m signing my own death sentence. “Gas? I don’t know how to refill it either. Why don’t you give your son a call to help you out?” I replied on purpose, but Mrs. Johnson responded like it was the most natural thing. “My son’s not around. Sarah, could you help me? You’ve always been there for me in the past.” “I’m just an old lady living on my own. If I starve to death, you being my neighbor—won’t your conscience hurt?” “Yeah, Sarah, we’re all neighbors here. What’s the harm in lending a hand?” Suddenly, someone else chimed in—it was Michael Adams, another neighbor on my floor. I smirked. “Lend a hand”? It’s never been easy for me. I’m swamped with work, so I make a simple packed lunch to bring to the office. Since Mrs. Johnson started mooching, she’s been picky about what she eats, demanding I get up at dawn to shop for her favorites at the farmer’s market. The time I wasted each day could have been enough to sit down for eight meals after work. My expenses went up fast, too. Last time around, I cooked for her for a whole month. In the end, she got cancer and blamed my cooking. I still don’t know what got into me last time. All it took was for her to ask, and I’d give in. Taking a deep breath, I replied to the nosy neighbor. “My gas is out too. Hey, Michael, you live closer to SoCalGas, don’t you? How about you help both Mrs. Johnson and me with the gas?” As soon as I sent the message, Michael backed out, “I’ve been working long hours at the construction site. No time to make it to the gas company.” “Sorry, gotta run—boss is calling.” Michael stopped responding after that. He’s always been the type to preach about kindness but never lifts a finger when it’s his turn to help. Mrs. Johnson, still with no dinner after all that back-and-forth, wasn’t ready to give up. She tagged me again. “Sarah, what are you busy with? Maybe I can wait until you’re done?” “I twisted my ankle. The doctor says I won’t be walking for at least a month or two.” “That long?” Mrs. Johnson sounded shocked. “Well then, I won’t trouble you. I can’t wait that long.” Mrs. Johnson stopped messaging in the Nextdoor Community Group. Finally, the tension left my body, and I started packing. It was time to cancel my lease and move out of this place. In my previous life, Mrs. Johnson’s son pushed me off a building at the hospital. I’ll never forget the terror of that fall, and I sure don’t want to experience it again. The best choice is to stay as far away from Mrs. Johnson as possible. 0
At 3 a.m., I was jolted awake by a notification from the group chat. It was a voice call initiated by none other than Steven Johnson, Mrs. Johnson’s son. When I didn’t answer, he started ranting in the group. “Sarah, are you even human? My mom’s out of gas and asked you for a meal, and you couldn’t be bothered?” “She’s an elderly woman! If she starves to death at home, can you live with that?” What a lunatic. How is it my responsibility if his mom eats or not? “She’s your mom, not mine. Besides, I’m not a restaurant. If I make her something and she gets sick, I’m not taking the blame!” “You’ve already made her food two or three times! You’re clearly trying to starve her to death on purpose!” Steven was completely unreasonable, and I lost it. “I sprained my ankle! I can barely make food for myself, let alone for your mom.” “If you care so much, why don’t you come over and cook for her yourself?” I muted the group chat immediately. This guy’s insane. Just because I didn’t cook for his mom, he comes ranting at me in the middle of the night? I’m not Mrs. Johnson’s daughter or her caretaker. Why should I be responsible for her? If I had known how this would play out, I would have refused her the first time she asked to mooch off my meals. Out of pity, I gave her a little extra when I cooked. She was a lonely, frail old lady who couldn’t even get a hot meal. I didn’t expect her to latch onto me like a leech. But my kindness wasn’t met with gratitude from either her or her son. Instead, they took it for granted, assuming it was my duty to help. The next morning, Mrs. Johnson started tagging me relentlessly in the Nextdoor Community Group again. I had the group muted and didn’t even see the messages. Besides, I’d already called the moving company and was ready to get out of there as soon as I sold my apartment. It was the smell of smoke that woke me up later. There was a crowd gathered at Mrs. Johnson’s door, and the firefighters looked annoyed. “Ma’am, even if you’re living alone, you’ve got to keep an eye on the stove.” “If the property manager hadn’t noticed the smoke, this whole building could’ve gone up.” “Seriously! We just had these walls repainted, and now they’ll need to be redone because of this mess. What a waste of money!” The property management staff complained. Mrs. Johnson didn’t dare make a peep, standing by the door, all meek and quiet. Michael had just come back from his night shift. After hearing what happened, he immediately spoke up for Mrs. Johnson. “Come on, folks. It wasn’t intentional. She’s an old lady living by herself. A little mistake is understandable. The important thing is no one got hurt.” Mrs. Johnson instantly put on a tearful face. “It’s okay, Michael. I don’t blame anyone. This is definitely my fault, but I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.” “I was starving all day yesterday and messaged Sarah this morning to help me make some porridge, but she didn’t respond. I was starting to worry something had happened to her. Now that I see her walking around, I feel so much better…” Her passive-aggressive tone made my blood boil. What annoyed me even more was that Michael, always the good guy, believed her without question and turned to scold me. “Sarah, what’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you reply to Mrs. Johnson’s messages? You’re perfectly fine, and she nearly burned the building down because of you.” I watched them play off each other, smiling coldly on the inside. But on the surface, I put on a guilty expression, ready to play along. “I’m really sorry. My ankle’s been hurting so much, and some jerk was yelling at me last night. I barely slept until this morning.” “If it weren’t for the smoke, I’d probably still be passed out right now.” Michael, always eager for gossip, leaned in, curious. “Who was yelling at you in the middle of the night? Is this person unhinged or something? Did you do something to set them off?” “Ugh!” I sighed heavily. “It was Mrs. Johnson’s son.” “He started yelling at me around 3 a.m. because I didn’t cook for his mom. He tagged me in the group chat just to curse me out.” As I said this, I glanced around at the other neighbors who had gathered to watch the drama unfold. I raised my voice a little to make sure they could hear. “Hey, neighbors, we’re all part of this community. Mrs. Johnson is an elderly woman living alone, so let’s help where we can.” “I’ve got a hurt ankle and can’t cook for her. Maybe someone else could make a meal and share it with Mrs. Johnson?” As soon as I finished speaking, the place fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Everyone had seen Steven’s outburst in the group chat the day before. Nobody wanted to deal with that kind of trouble. After what seemed like an eternity, someone muttered under their breath. “When my mom lived alone, she still cooked for herself. It’s not really fair to expect the neighbors to do it.” “Yeah, sure, elderly people need help sometimes, but she’s got a son. It’s not our job to take care of her.” With that, the crowd dispersed. 0
Michael noticed Mrs. Johnson’s face turning sour, so he tried to console her, playing the good guy again. “Mrs. Johnson, don’t let those selfish people bother you.” I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, no compassion at all.” “Michael, I know you cook at home often, and you’re right across the hall from Mrs. Johnson. How about you make her some meals over the next few days?” Michael’s expression instantly changed to one of pure panic. “My cooking’s terrible. I doubt Mrs. Johnson would even like it.” “But your dad’s a retired chef from a fancy hotel. Surely cooking for an elderly neighbor wouldn’t be too difficult?” Michael’s dad lived with him, and the two were known for their nightly meals and occasional drinks, the aromas wafting through the halls for everyone to enjoy. Michael’s face turned pale. “That’s not gonna work! We only cook stuff that goes well with a drink. Mrs. Johnson’s tastes are different. And anyway, what if something goes wrong and she gets sick? Who’s gonna be responsible?” See? He knew all along how risky it was, but it only mattered when it wasn’t his responsibility. Smiling, I played along. “Exactly, Michael. You know how dangerous it is to feed someone else. So why didn’t you warn me when I was cooking for Mrs. Johnson a few days ago?” “Luckily, nothing happened. Michael, you wouldn’t have let me take the blame on purpose, would you?” Sweat began dripping down Michael’s back as he stammered out a response. “I—I just didn’t think of it until now. Anyway, I’ve been working nights, so I should probably get some sleep.” Michael made a hasty exit. Mrs. Johnson shot me a glance from the doorway, her face a twisted mix of frustration and defeat. “Never mind. It was just a moment of carelessness on my part. I’ll make sure to be more careful in the kitchen from now on.” “As for what happened yesterday, my son definitely overreacted. Please don’t take it to heart, Sarah.” I thought for a moment that Mrs. Johnson had finally changed her ways. But it turns out, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Later that afternoon, community volunteers came by to drop off supplies—bags of flour, rice, and oil—to help Mrs. Johnson out. But she looked at the items with pure disdain. “I don’t eat this kind of oil. It’s all GMO. Not healthy at all.” “And what am I supposed to do with flour? I’m an old woman! Do you expect me to knead dough on my own?” The community workers exchanged awkward glances. Then Mrs. Johnson’s gaze shifted to the takeout bag in my hand. “Sarah, that takeout smells delicious. Why don’t you give me a bite?” “Mrs. Johnson, this takeout is all processed junk food. It’s not good for you at your age. You should really stick to cooking at home.” I quickly grabbed my takeout and closed the door, devouring it in record time. In my past life, I’d ordered takeout for Mrs. Johnson plenty of times. She was picky, only wanting the priciest meals. One time, when a heavy rainstorm delayed the delivery, she refused to eat the food and called to complain. “Sarah, what is this garbage you ordered? It’s cold and inedible!” “Take it back home with you when you get off work. I’m not touching it!” Of course, she never paid me for any of the takeout. Looking back, I can’t believe how I was such a pushover—working like a dog, too broke to order food for myself, yet still paying out of pocket to get her the best meals. After finishing my takeout, I reclined on the balcony, enjoying the breeze in my lounge chair. This relaxed life was heaven. Suddenly, the video doorbell buzzed, alerting me to someone at the door. It was Mrs. Johnson again, I assumed, back to cause more trouble. But when I checked the live feed, I saw a man standing there instead. Judging by his posture, he looked a lot like Michael’s dad. And right now, the two of them were holding hands, exchanging glances so intense you could almost see sparks flying between them. Well, well, well. Looks like there’s more to this story than I thought. 0
Mrs. Johnson was practically draped over John Adams, working her charm like she had perfected the art. “John, if it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would’ve happened. I really thought I was at the end of my rope,” she said, her voice trembling for effect. “I was so hungry that I collapsed just outside my door.” John, ever the gentleman, responded quickly. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m a retired chef! Making a meal for you would’ve been no trouble at all.” Mrs. Johnson kept her tone soft, still pulling at his emotions. “How could I impose? Besides, your son mentioned that the meals you make at home are all too heavy, more suited for a glass of whiskey. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it…” John bristled at the mention of his son. “Michael’s talking nonsense! We eat hearty, delicious food every day. Tell you what, why don’t I whip up a nice chicken pot pie for you?” Mrs. Johnson hesitated for effect. “Won’t Michael mind?” That set John off. “Mind? What business is it of his? I make the rules in my house!” Mrs. Johnson smiled sweetly. “You’re too kind, John. Anyone lucky enough to be a part of your family is truly blessed.” With that, she had him wrapped around her finger. John was practically glowing from her praise, and off he went to cook her a meal. I couldn’t help but laugh. Mrs. Johnson hadn’t lost her touch. In no time at all, she had found her next target—a free personal chef. I could only imagine Michael’s face when he came home to find that the pot pie meant for his dinner had been devoured by Mrs. Johnson. Satisfied with the little drama, I ordered another round of takeout and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging comfortably. As I settled down to watch a movie, my phone buzzed—there was a flurry of activity in the Nextdoor Community Group. “Mrs. Johnson, couldn’t you have discussed whatever it was in person? Did my dad really need to go over to your place in the middle of the night?” “What’s going on that you have to drag him into this mess?” Michael’s post read. Mrs. Johnson wasted no time replying. “I just wanted to thank your father for making me dinner. Michael, I think you’re overreacting.” “Overreacting? My dad has never once cooked for me in years. Then suddenly he’s making you pot pie? I’ve never even had his pot pie!” Michael fumed in the chat. Frustrated, John finally chimed in. “That’s enough! Mrs. Johnson needs help, and I’m more than happy to provide it. You’re a grown man—do you still expect me to cook your meals? Seriously, Michael, stop being selfish!” The chat had clearly caught everyone’s attention. Michael, in a fit of rage, continued. “Stop being selfish? I bust my butt working all day and come home to relax with a drink and a decent meal, but now my food is going to someone else? And let’s not forget—this woman had the nerve to cozy up to you, and now you’re at her place all the time!” He wasn’t holding back. I hadn’t expected him to air their dirty laundry so openly. The other neighbors jumped in, unable to resist. “This does seem a bit much.” “Yeah, getting free meals is one thing, but turning the chef into your personal servant is another.” “Careful, Mrs. Johnson, if you steal our building’s prized cook, Michael’s going to starve.” The comments kept rolling in, getting more and more out of hand. Mrs. Johnson remained silent, no doubt furious but unable to retaliate. I let the chaos play out in the group while I turned back to my movie. But the next morning, I woke to a different kind of chaos. Standing at my front door was Steven Johnson. And in his hand was a knife.
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