One night, I rushed from the shower to find my 3-year-old son crying and covered in red paint while my wife sat nearby, glued to her iPad. Frustrated and confused, I soon uncovered a deeper issue: the silent struggle my wife had been facing, one that threatened to break our family apart.
It was a regular evening. My wife sat in the recliner, scrolling like she often did through her iPad. The kids were in bed, or so I thought. I figured it was the perfect time for a long and relaxing shower.
A woman looking at her iPad | Source: Pexels
I heard a faint cry as I stood under the hot water. At first, I ignored it, thinking it was nothing serious. But then, the cry got louder, more desperate.
“Daddy! Daddy!” my 3-year-old son’s voice pierced through the sound of running water.
A child crying in his room | Source: Midjourney
I quickly turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and rushed out. As I passed through the family room, I glanced at my wife. She was still sitting there, glued to her iPad, completely oblivious to the chaos in the other room.
“You couldn’t calm him down?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
She didn’t even look up. “I tried three times,” she said, sounding bored.
A bored woman in a tablet | Source: Pexels
Three times? I shook my head, frustrated, and hurried into my son’s room. I was ready to comfort him, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw next.
The moment I stepped inside, I saw him sitting up in his bed, his little body shaking as he sobbed. “Daddy, I made a mess,” he said between gasps.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I said softly, assuming it was just tears and snot. “We’ll clean it up.”
A scared child looking up | Source: Midjourney
I walked closer and scooped him up. He clung to me tightly, still crying. His face was buried in my shoulder, and I felt wetness dripping down my neck. “Poor guy’s been crying so long,” I thought. But then, something didn’t feel right. His pajamas were too wet.
I laid him back down and grabbed my phone to turn on the flashlight. That’s when I saw it — red everywhere. At first, my heart dropped, thinking it was blood. I froze. But as I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t blood. It was red paint.
A paint palette | Source: Pexels
“Where did this come from?” I whispered, scanning the room. Then I saw the open jar of red paint on the small table near his crib. My wife had been painting animals with him the night before, and somehow, he must’ve knocked the jar over.
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he cried again, his little hands covered in red.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to stay calm. “It’s just paint. We’ll clean it up.”
A child covered in pink paint | Source: Midjourney
But the more I looked, the worse it got. The paint had spilled all over his bed, his clothes, and his hair. It was everywhere. And on top of that, I realized he’d wet himself too. My frustration bubbled up. How had my wife not noticed this?
I wiped his face gently and took a deep breath. “Why didn’t Mommy come help you?” I asked softly, trying to piece things together.
He sniffled and looked at me with those big, innocent eyes. “Mommy didn’t check on me. Nobody checked on me.”
An upset child covered in pink paint | Source: Midjourney
His words stung. I had assumed she’d tried. But now, I wasn’t so sure.
I scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom, feeling the weight of the situation sink in. Something was wrong — more than just spilled paint and wet pajamas.
My son had been left alone, scared and crying, and no one had come. As I bathed him, I couldn’t shake the image of my wife, still sitting in that chair, smiling at whatever was on her screen.
A woman smiling on her couch | Source: Pexels
When we were done, I wrapped him in a towel and headed back to the family room. She hadn’t moved an inch. She didn’t even look up when I walked in.
“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice low but filled with frustration. “How could you not hear him crying?”
“I told you, I tried three times,” she repeated, her eyes glued to the screen.
“But he said you never checked on him,” I shot back, feeling my anger rise.
A man arguing with his wife | Source: Midjourney
She shrugged, not saying a word.
I stood there, holding our son, dripping with paint and bathwater, feeling like I was standing on the edge of something bigger than just a bad night. Something was wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it.
The tension in the room hung heavy, and I knew this wasn’t over. Something had to change. But what?
A man covering his face with his eyes | Source: Pexels
The next morning, I packed a bag for my son and myself. I wasn’t leaving for good — at least, not yet — but I couldn’t stay in the house. I needed space to figure things out. I didn’t tell my wife much as we left. She barely reacted anyway; she just nodded as if my decision meant nothing.
Once at my sister’s place, I made a call I hadn’t planned. I dialed my mother-in-law. I liked her well enough, but this felt like more than just updating her on a tough situation.
A man talking on his phone | Source: Pexels
I needed answers. Maybe she’d know what was going on with her daughter because I sure didn’t.
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” I started when she picked up. “Something’s not right with your daughter.”
Her voice sounded concerned. “What’s happened? Did you have a fight?”
A woman talking on her phone in her living room | Source: Pexels
I sighed. “It’s more than that. She ignored our son last night, left him crying and covered in paint. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but it’s not just one bad night. She’s… distant. Uncaring. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
My mother-in-law listened carefully, and then after a long pause, she said, “I’ll come over. Let me talk to her.”
A few days later, she called me back. Her voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant.
A serious woman typing on her phone | Source: Pexels
“I spoke to her,” she said. “She finally opened up. It’s not you or the baby. It’s depression.”
That word hit me like a ton of bricks. Depression? I had never really thought of that. I had been so focused on my frustration, my anger at her behavior, that I didn’t stop to consider that something deeper was going on.
A sad man realizing his mistake | Source: Midjourney
“She’s been struggling for a while now,” her mother continued. “The pressure of motherhood, losing time for herself, for her art. It’s been overwhelming for her. She feels trapped, like she’s lost who she is.”
I stood there, stunned. I had no idea she was feeling this way. How could I? She never said anything.
“She’s agreed to see a therapist,” her mother added. “But she’s going to need your support. This won’t be easy.”
A mature woman talking on her phone | Source: Midjourney
Support. That word echoed in my mind. I had been angry, ready to walk away, but now I had to think about what my wife was really going through. This wasn’t about neglecting our son out of laziness or disinterest. It was deeper than that. And now, I had to figure out how to help her.
While staying with my son, I started to see things differently. Taking care of him on my own wasn’t just hard — it was exhausting.
An exhausted man with his son | Source: Midjourney
Every day was a blur of diapers, tantrums, and trying to keep him entertained. There was barely a moment to breathe, let alone think. By the time I put him to bed, I was drained, both physically and mentally.
I thought about how my wife had been doing this daily for years without a break. She’d put her art aside to take care of our family, but in doing that, she lost a part of herself. The weight of motherhood had quietly crushed her spirit, and I hadn’t noticed.
A sad blonde woman | Source: Midjourney
Over the next few weeks, things slowly started to change. My wife began seeing a therapist. At first, I wasn’t sure if it would help. She was quiet after her sessions, not saying much about what they talked about. But as time passed, I noticed small changes in her.
One day, she called me while I was out with our son. Her voice cracked over the phone.
A woman talking on her phone | Source: Midjourney
“Can you come home?” she asked. “I need to talk to you.”
When I walked in the door, she was sitting on the couch, looking tired but different somehow. There was something softer in her face, something I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten. I was so lost in my own world, in my head, that I didn’t see what it was doing to you or to our son.”
A sad woman in her phone | Source: Midjourney
I sat down next to her, unsure of what to say. She kept talking.
“The therapist is helping. I know it’ll take time, but I want to be better. Not just for me, but for us. For him.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw the person I had fallen in love with.
A couple having a serious talk | Source: Midjourney
Over the following months, things continued to improve. She started painting again, slowly at first. Her mother would come over and watch our son while she spent a couple of hours in her art studio, reconnecting with the part of herself she had neglected for so long.
“I forgot how much I love this,” she told me one evening, showing me a canvas she had been working on. “It feels good to create again.”
A woman with her painting | Source: Midjourney
Her bond with our son also started to heal. I’d catch them reading together or her teaching him how to draw simple shapes with crayons. The distance that had once separated them was closing, bit by bit. He seemed happier too, more settled, as if he could sense that Mommy was really back.
Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing. Together.
A happy family | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My Neighbor Didn’t Pay Me the $250 We Agreed on for Cleaning Her House — So I Gave Her a Fair Lesson
“Don’t stay out too late. And remember, homework first when you get back,” I called after him as he stormed out the door, not waiting for my reply.
It was just another day in the life I’d been patching together since Silas left. Balancing the responsibilities of raising two kids alone while trying to keep a roof over our heads wasn’t easy.
My work at the call center helped, but it wasn’t exactly my dream job. It was a job, though, and in times like these, that’s all that mattered.
That’s when Emery, the new neighbor in her early 30s, knocked on my door. I opened it to see her, eyes red-rimmed, looking like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Hey, Prudence, can I ask you for a huge favor?” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
I nodded, stepping aside to let her in. “Sure, Emery. What’s going on?”
She sighed, sinking into the couch like she was about to collapse. “I had this crazy party last night, and then I got called out of town for work. The place is a disaster, and I don’t have time to clean it up. Could you, um, help me out? I’ll pay you, of course.”
I hesitated, glancing at the clock. My shift was due to start in a couple of hours, but the idea of earning some extra cash was tempting. Lord knows we could use it.
“How much are we talking about?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” she said quickly. “I just really need the help, Prudence. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.”
“Alright,” I agreed after a moment. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver!” Emery hugged me quickly before rushing out, leaving me to wonder what I’d just signed up for.
Emery’s house was a wreck, and that’s putting it mildly. It looked like a tornado had blown through it, with empty bottles, plates with half-eaten food, and trash strewn everywhere.
I stood in the middle of her living room, hands on my hips, trying to figure out where to even begin.
Two days. It took me two solid days of scrubbing, sweeping, and hauling garbage out of that house. By the time I was done, my back ached, and my hands were raw. But I kept reminding myself of that $250 Emery promised. That money would go a long way for us.
When Emery finally got back, I marched over to her place, ready to collect.
“Emery, it’s done. Your house is spotless,” I said, trying to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. “So, about the payment…”
She blinked at me like I was speaking another language. “Payment? What payment?”
I frowned, my heart sinking a little. “The $250 you promised for cleaning up your house. Remember?”
Emery’s expression shifted into one of confusion, then annoyance. “Prudence, I never agreed to pay you anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For a moment, I just stood there, dumbfounded. “You… what? You said you’d pay me! We had an agreement.”
“No, we didn’t,” she snapped. “Look, I’m late for work, and I really don’t have time for this.” She pushed past me, heading towards her car.
“Emery, this isn’t right!” I called after her, but she was already backing out of her driveway, not giving me a second glance.
As I watched Emery’s car disappear down the street, I stood there, fuming. How could she just walk away like that?
Two days of back-breaking work, and she had the nerve to pretend like we never made a deal. I could feel my anger bubbling up, but I knew better than to act on impulse.
I went back to my house, slammed the door behind me, and paced the living room, trying to think. Connie was playing with her dolls on the floor, and Damien was still out with his friends. I didn’t want to drag my kids into this mess, but I also wasn’t about to let Emery get away with it.
“Alright, Prudence, you’ve got to be smart about this,” I muttered to myself. I looked out the window at Emery’s house and an idea started to form in my mind. It was risky, but I was beyond caring at that point. If she wanted to play dirty, I could get down in the mud too.
Twenty minutes later, I was at the local garbage dump, pulling on a pair of old gloves I kept in the car. I wasn’t proud of what I was about to do, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I loaded up my trunk with as many garbage bags as I could fit, the stench nearly making me gag. But I gritted my teeth and kept going.
On the drive back, I kept replaying our conversation in my head, her dismissive tone, her refusal to acknowledge what she’d promised. The more I thought about it, the more justified I felt.
She didn’t even have the decency to respect the hard work I’d put into cleaning her filthy house. Well, she was about to see just how dirty things could get.
When I pulled up in front of Emery’s house, the street was quiet. No one was around to see me pop the trunk and start hauling the garbage bags to her front door. My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline coursing through me as I worked quickly.
It was then I realized something: Emery had forgotten to take her house key back from me. She was in such a hurry when she left, she didn’t even think about it.
I hesitated for a moment. But then I thought of the look on her face when she told me there was no agreement, the way she dismissed me like I was nothing. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house was still spotless, just as I’d left it, but that was about to change. One by one, I tore open the garbage bags, dumping the contents all over her floors, her counters, and even her bed. Rotten food, old newspapers, dirty diapers: everything mixed in a disgusting heap.
“This is what you get, Emery,” I muttered under my breath as I emptied the last bag. “You wanted to play games, well, game on.”
I closed the door behind me, making sure to lock it, and slipped the key under her welcome mat. As I walked back to my car, I felt a strange surge of satisfaction and guilt. But I shook it off. Emery had brought this on herself.
That evening, just as I was putting Connie to bed, I heard furious banging on my front door. I knew who it was before I even opened it.
“Prudence! What the hell did you do to my house?!” Emery screamed, her face red with anger.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, playing it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Emery. How could I have gotten into your house? We never had any agreement, remember? So, I never had the keys to your house.”
She stared at me, speechless for a moment, before her face twisted in rage. “You—you’re lying! I’m calling the police! You’re going to pay for this!”
I shrugged, not breaking eye contact. “Go ahead and call them. But how are you going to explain how I got in? You can’t because according to you, I never had the key.”
Emery opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. She looked like she was about to explode, but all she could do was turn on her heel and storm off, muttering something under her breath.
I watched her go, my heart still pounding, but this time it wasn’t just from anger. There was a sense of justice, of balance restored.
I didn’t know if she’d call the police, but I wasn’t worried. Emery had learned a valuable lesson that day: don’t mess with Prudence.
As I closed the door, I let out a long breath, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. I knew I’d crossed a line, but in that moment, it felt like the only way to make things right.
Sometimes, you have to stand up for yourself, even if it means getting your hands dirty. And as for Emery? Well, I had a feeling she wouldn’t be asking me for any more favors anytime soon.
Do you think I handled things well? What would you have done differently in my place?
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