All I ever wanted at this stage in life was peace — to sit in the sun, listen to the birds, and breathe without worry. After raising kids, becoming a grandma, and going through a divorce, I thought I’d earned that. But my neighbor Arnold seemed determined to ruin it.
He complained about everything — my fence, my flowers, even the smell of my cooking. Things escalated when I put up a bird feeder and he claimed the birds were “attacking” his porch. He stormed into my yard and destroyed it. Furious, I replaced it with three new feeders and posted signs banning him from my property.
He was livid. But the real question that haunted me was — why did he hate me so much?
When he first moved in, I tried to be kind. I even brought him a warm cherry pie. He looked stunned and slammed the door in my face. From that moment, he made my life miserable, and I never understood why.
Then one day, I noticed his front door wide open. Concerned, I stepped inside — and froze. His home was filled with old photos of me. Pictures of us. Letters. And a note I’d written long ago. That’s when it hit me: Arnold was Arnie, my first love. The boy who disappeared without a word.
He walked in and saw me there. We argued, years of pain flooding out. I accused him of abandoning me; he claimed he’d written daily and never heard back. As it turned out, my family had moved right after he left — his letters never reached me.
He moved back here for me. But seeing me not recognize him crushed him. That’s why he acted out.
“I still love you,” he finally said, inviting me to dinner.
I left in tears, overwhelmed. But I said yes. Maybe my first date was with Arnie — and maybe, just maybe, the last one will be too.
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