As I finally made the turn onto my street after a long and exhausting two-week business trip, I felt a wave of relief wash over me at the thought of seeing my bright, cheerful canary-yellow home once more. Painted with love by my late husband, Julian, it has always served as a vibrant reminder of the joyful life we shared together. As I got closer, I could sense that something wasn’t quite right.
The bright, sunny brilliance I had anticipated was nowhere to be found, leaving behind a dull, lifeless gray exterior. I slammed my foot on the brake, the tires screeching in protest. I found myself double-checking the house number—perhaps I had taken a wrong turn onto the street. But it turned out the number was correct. This dreary, lifeless building was where I lived.
I’m Irene. At 57, I consider myself to be quite patient overall. When you’ve lovingly painted your home in the color your late spouse adored, only to see it tarnished by intrusive neighbors, it’s hard to keep your cool. Two years back, a rather tense newlywed couple,
Franklin and Ava, settled in next door. From the very first day, they couldn’t stand the bright color of my house. While the rest of the neighborhood celebrated its joy, they looked on with disdain. They never stopped complaining, always throwing out snarky comments whenever I was outside watering the flowers or trimming the hedges.
Franklin often joked about the house color, nudging Ava and saying, “Bright enough for you, Irene?” She would let out a deep sigh, grasping her pearls tightly and rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Have you thought about something a bit more neutral?” she’d say, her voice dripping with condescension, as if I’d just suggested turning the Statue of Liberty into a neon pink spectacle.
