I’m not the type to get involved in neighborhood drama.
Between raising two teenagers, working full time, and keeping the bills paid, I usually just try to stay in my lane and keep my yard halfway decent.
But sometimes you witness something so wrong that staying quiet feels worse than speaking up. That’s what happened with Gavin and Miss Darlene.
I’m not the type to get involved in neighborhood drama.
Gavin moved out about six months ago, leaving his massive house next door empty while he tried to find renters. Before he left, he cornered Ms. Darlene at her mailbox one afternoon.
“Hey, I need a favor,” he said, flashing that smile he probably thought was charming. “Can you keep an eye on my lawn while I’m gone? Just have your gardener swing by every couple of weeks. It’s only 40 bucks each time. I’ll pay you back, obviously.”
Darlene’s 90, barely five feet tall, and the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. The kind of woman who bakes cookies for the mail carrier and remembers everyone’s birthday.
Of course, she said yes.
He cornered Ms. Darlene at her mailbox one afternoon.
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she told him. “I’m happy to help.”
I was trimming my hedges and overheard the whole thing. Something about it bothered me, but I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my business.
But it should’ve been.
For the next few months, Darlene took that promise seriously. Too seriously.
She didn’t just “keep an eye” on Gavin’s lawn; she treated it like her own.
Something about it bothered me.
I’d see her out there in the brutal summer heat, pulling weeds from his flower beds, picking up trash that blew into his yard, even watering his plants when it hadn’t rained.
And every two weeks, like clockwork, the gardening crew would show up and mow both properties… hers and Gavin’s.
Then the hurricane hit.
The storm tore through our neighborhood like it had a personal grudge.
Darlene’s yard took the worst of it. A massive oak tree split down the middle and crashed across her fence, taking out half of it.
I’d see her out there in the brutal summer heat, pulling weeds from his flower beds.
Branches were everywhere. Her flower garden — the one she’d spent years cultivating — was buried under debris. Her mailbox was bent completely sideways.
It was heartbreaking to see.
But you want to know what Gavin’s yard looked like?
It was PERFECT.
Not a single leaf was out of place. That same afternoon (literally hours after the storm passed), his professional landscaping crew rolled up in their big truck with chainsaws and blowers and started cleaning.
It was heartbreaking to see.
I watched them for about 10 minutes, then walked over.
“Hey,” I said to the crew leader. “Miss Darlene next door could really use some help. Her yard’s destroyed. Could you guys maybe give her a hand when you’re done here?”
The guy looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Gavin’s pristine lawn, then at Darlene’s disaster, then back at me.
