While my seven-year-old daughter fought for her life in the hospital with severe pneumonia, my neighbor decided to “decorate” my front door with rotten tomatoes. All because I hadn’t put up Halloween decorations early enough for her liking. You know those days when life hits you so hard you can barely catch your breath? That’s been my reality lately. Between double shifts at the diner and spending every spare moment at the hospital with Lacey, I’ve been running on caffeine and sheer determination.
It started with what I thought was just a cold. Lacey came home from school one Tuesday with a slight cough. It didn’t look like anything serious. But by Friday night, she was burning up with a fever. “Mommy, I don’t feel good,” she said while trying to catch her breath. That was the point where I realized something was extremely wrong with her. I didn’t even wait for an ambulance. I wrapped her in a blanket and drove to the ER like my life depended on it because it did. My life is Lacey.
The doctors moved fast, thank God. Words like “severe pneumonia,” “aggressive infection,” and “extended stay” flew around while they ran tests on her. After what seemed like an eternity, the ER doctor finally sat down with me. “The infection’s in both lungs,” he explained gently. “She’s going to need intensive treatment. We’re looking at a minimum of three weeks in the hospital.” “Three weeks?” I looked at him with wide eyes. “But… but I have to work. The insurance… it doesn’t cover everything.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s focus on getting her better first. You can speak with our financial department about payment plans.” I’ve been doing this solo parent thing for five years now, ever since Mark decided his twenty-something secretary was more appealing than his family responsibilities. The divorce knocked us down hard, but my daughter Lacey and I aren’t the type of people who’d give up. We’re fighters. We didn’t let Mark’s poor decisions affect us. I worked as a waitress and picked up extra shifts after the divorce. Living on a single income taught me how to stretch every dollar and avoid unnecessary expenses.
Last year, we even managed to move into this supposedly “better” neighborhood. You know, the kind where people treat their HOA guidelines like they’re the Constitution. “Alice, hon, you’ve got tables 4 and 6 waiting,” Maria called out during another hectic dinner shift. She’s been my rock through all this, covering for me when hospital visits run long. “On it!” I called back, tucking my phone deeper into my apron pocket after checking another message from Lacey’s doctors. These hospital bills were piling up faster than I could count, but what choice did I have? My baby needed me, and I had to work harder for her. “You look dead on your feet,” Maria said while refilling coffee cups. “When’s the last time you got some real sleep?” I just shook my head. “Sleep’s a luxury I can’t afford right now. Between the hospital visits and these double shifts…” “At least you’ve got good neighbors to help out, right?” Maria asked. I let out a bitter laugh thinking about Carla from two doors down. That woman could give surveillance cameras a run for their money. Ever since we moved in, she’s appointed herself as the neighborhood’s personal CNN. Carla’s Nosy Network. Just last month, she caused a whole drama with the Hendersons across the street. They’d painted their front door navy blue. It’s a perfectly normal color, right? Well, Carla didn’t just notice it. She measured the paint swatch against the HOA handbook, took photos at different times of day, and then sent a 500-word email to everyone about how it was “Midnight Navy” instead of the approved “Classic Navy.” The poor Hendersons had to repaint their door to avoid a fine. “Remember that time she counted how many people came to Janet’s book club?” I told Maria. “She actually reported Janet to the HOA for ‘running a business from home’ because there were more than six cars parked on the street. It was a book club, for heaven’s sake!” Carla’s the type who doesn’t just check her mailbox. She watches everyone else check theirs too. She keeps a literal notebook of when people bring their trash cans in and out. I swear I’ve seen her peeking through her blinds so often. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when she started blowing up our HOA group chat about Halloween preparations in mid-September. Every day brought a new message about “maintaining neighborhood standards” and “preserving property values through seasonal charm.” But with Lacey in the hospital, festive decorations were the last thing on my mind. That’s when my phone buzzed again. Another message from Carla, but this time sent directly to me. My heart raced when the notification popped up on my screen. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read her text. Are you special or something? Why isn’t your house decorated for Halloween? It’s almost the end of October, and your house is the only one ruining the vibe. Do you want to spoil Halloween for the whole neighborhood? It’s embarrassing. I had to read it twice to believe someone could be this insensitive. I took a deep breath before typing out a response, trying my best to keep it professional despite my rising anger. Carla, I’m sorry I haven’t decorated. I’ve been in the hospital with my daughter for two weeks now. She’s really sick, and all my money’s gone to medicine and bills. I’m not sure I’ll be able to put anything up this year. Well, I didn’t get a response from Carla, so I thought she must’ve found something else to worry about. I had no idea how wrong I was. After three long weeks, Lacey was finally well enough to come home. We pulled into our driveway at sunset as we discussed how good it’d feel to finally sleep in our beds. That’s when the smell hit us. A putrid, sickening odor that made my stomach turn. Our front door was completely covered in smashed, rotten tomatoes. The red pulp dripped down the wood and seeds stuck in every crevice. But the pièce de résistance? A note was taped right in the middle. It read: Now at least it looks a bit like Halloween. No need to thank me. “Mommy, why does our house smell bad?” Lacey asked. I didn’t have an answer to my daughter’s innocent question. I was so angry that my feet were almost shaking. I got Lacey settled inside despite the garage, made sure she was comfortable in bed, and then stormed over to Carla’s house. I could see her peeking through her blinds as I approached. When she opened the door, that smug smile on her face made me want to scream. “Oh, hey there. Enjoying the Halloween decorations?” she asked. “Are you kidding me, Carla?” I snapped. “I told you what I was dealing with. You know my daughter’s been in the hospital, and you still did this?” She rolled her eyes like I was being dramatic. “Look, I just thought you were making excuses. Everyone decorates, and it’s unfair for you to spoil it for the rest of us. I thought a little tomato juice might remind you to get into the spirit. You didn’t put up the decorations soon enough. Not my fault.” Before I could respond, her husband Dan appeared behind her. He was horrified after hearing his wife’s confession. “Carla, what the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “You did what?” The next few minutes were pure chaos. Dan pulled Carla inside, and I could hear him confront her. The muffled argument was punctuated by phrases like “completely unacceptable” and “lost your mind.” When Dan returned to the door, his face was red with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I had no idea she’d do something like this. I’ll clean up your door and pay for any damages. Carla, you better apologize right now.” Carla emerged and muttered what had to be the most insincere apology I’d ever heard. But this isn’t where the story ends. Karma intervened a few hours later and taught her an unforgettable lesson. That night, the strongest storm of the season hit our neighborhood. The wind howled like a banshee, and the rain came down in sheets. When I looked out my window the next morning, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Carla’s elaborate Halloween display – the one she’d been bragging about for weeks – was absolutely decimated. Her precious inflatable decorations were scattered across three yards, her meticulously carved pumpkins had turned to mush in the rain, and her collection of “premium” skeletons lay broken and tangled in the bushes. Mother Nature had delivered the perfect revenge. Dan followed through on his promise, showing up early the next day with cleaning supplies and groceries. “I can’t apologize enough,” he said while scrubbing the last bits of tomato off my door. “How’s your daughter doing?” “She’s getting stronger every day,” I replied. “Thanks for asking. And thanks for, uh, everything else.” Carla hasn’t spoken a word to me since then and I’ve been loving the silence. When I pass by her house these days and see her bare lawn, I can’t help but smile a little. Sometimes karma doesn’t just come around. It blows through like a hurricane.