I’m Gavin. I live on the second floor with my wife Becca and our kids—Liam, seven, obsessed with dinosaurs, and Ava, five, who sparkles constantly.
Life was great—until Marge.
She’s our next-door neighbor from 3B, treating our building like her personal domain. She leaves passive-aggressive Post‑it notes about Liam’s scooter or Ava walking in the hallway. She scolds Becca for shaking a towel on our balcony, complains that our daughter should “learn to walk better” when she trips over Marge’s carelessly stored plant stands, and files HOA complaints because Liam scooters in the parking lot and our laundry hums too loudly.
One Saturday, Marge intentionally blocked our car in her sedan, honking aggressively while we loaded the kids and groceries. With a tired smile, Becca looked at me—and I locked our doors, walked us back into the mall, and treated the kids to pizza. We stood our ground. That day, Marge stopped bothering us. She no longer complains or occupies the hallway.
But two weeks later, I found her by the lobby, carrying Indian takeout. I thanked her for her behavior at the mall and told her the kids were scared. She quietly admitted she’d been “mean.” Then she confessed she was lonely—eating alone. She silently entered the elevator, leaving me torn between relief and pity.
Sometimes, setting boundaries is compassionate too.