Living next door to someone doesn’t mean you know their story. When I discovered my wealthy neighbor secretly working as a waitress and her backstory, I learned that first impressions can hide the most astounding truths. Living next door to Veronica was like having a front-row seat to a fashion show.
My glamorous neighbor, with her designer wardrobe, luxury cars, and perfectly groomed dogs, always seemed untouchable. Every morning, I watched from my kitchen window as she emerged from her sprawling colonial house in outfits that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. Her two Yorkies trotted beside her with their rhinestone collars glinting in the sunlight.
“Must be nice,” I muttered one morning, stirring my instant coffee while she climbed into her Mercedes SUV carrying a designer handbag. My own living room desperately needed new curtains, and there she was, probably heading off to spend more money. I told myself I wasn’t bitter, but I often wondered what it would be like to have that much money.
She and I would sometimes exchange quick nods when we passed each other, but that was it. She didn’t seem like the warmest person, either; she had this way of looking through people like we were just background characters in her life. Even her house and front yard made mine look like a dump, even though we were literally neighbors.
Then came the incident that cemented my image of her as entitled and out of touch. I was watering my sad attempt at a garden when I heard her voice slice through the peaceful morning. I looked up and saw her standing in front of her house, berating a delivery driver.
“This is completely unacceptable,” she snapped. “You’re two hours late, and everything reeks.”
The young delivery guy was Tom, who I’d often seen around the area hustling for many delivery apps to pay for school. The poor man shifted from foot to foot at Veronica’s harshness.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am. The traffic was terrible, and—”
“I don’t want excuses,” Veronica cut him off. “I think—”
I couldn’t hear any more of her words as the garbage truck came roaring in, blocking my view too.
Still, I smiled and waved hello to Charlie and Parker, the garbage guys, as they did their thing. By the time they left, Tom’s car had driven off, but I saw Veronica shaking her head before returning to her house. I shook my head, thinking, “Man, she’s so out of touch, it’s not even funny.”
The days passed in their usual routine.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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