I stayed quiet when my neighbor stole my things — and even when she used my electricity. But the night I finally fought back, karma struck twice. The second blow was one she never saw coming.
Most mornings, the biggest decision I had to make was whether the tomatoes needed watering before breakfast.
At sixty-four, I liked it that way.
I’d had enough surprises for one lifetime, and after thirty-two years in the same little suburban house, there wasn’t much left in it that could surprise me.
The number was nearly double.
That morning, I poured my coffee, opened the mail, and found out I was wrong.
Except this time, I couldn’t.
I blinked. Then I blinked again.
“That can’t be right,” I said aloud, to nobody but the cat.
The number was nearly double. Not a few dollars off. Double.
I checked the account number. I checked the meter reading. I even walked out to the little box on the side of my garage and squinted at it, as if the digits might apologize and correct themselves.
“Old fridges eat power.”
They didn’t.
I came back inside and called my daughter Diane — because that’s what widows do when something doesn’t add up. We call our daughters and pretend we just wanted to chat.
“Mom, did you leave the AC running with a window open again?”
“I did not,” I said. “I haven’t touched the thermostat since April.”
“Maybe it’s the fridge. Old fridges eat power.”
Monica had trouble.
“The fridge is younger than you are, honey.”
