I always thought my neighbor, Courtney, admired my garden. I had a few similar flowers, a matching layout—nothing too obvious. It seemed flattering, right? But when I realized she had copied every single detail, I started to get suspicious. And then, after a storm knocked down our fence, I discovered the truth—a tiny red light blinking from a hidden camera, watching my every move.
Gardening isn’t just a hobby for me. It’s my passion. It’s my therapy. It’s the one thing that truly makes my house feel like a home. Each flower, shrub, and vine is a part of me.
I don’t just plant things for the sake of it. I curate my space, shaping the earth with my hands, crafting something alive, something that feels like an extension of myself. I spend hours researching the best plants, adjusting layouts, and ensuring that every single corner of my garden thrives.
I can tell just by the way the sunlight falls in the morning which flowers will do best in each corner. I know the right amount of water each plant needs, the perfect balance of soil, and the way different scents will mingle by mid-afternoon.
So when I first noticed Courtney’s garden starting to resemble mine, I thought nothing of it. A few tulips here, some lavender there—no big deal. Gardening is meant to inspire others, after all. I didn’t own nature.
But then, I started noticing more and more. One morning, as I was watering my deep red roses, I caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye. Courtney was in her yard, watering her roses. The exact same shade of crimson.
“Wait a minute,” I thought. Her garden had been full of pink and white flowers just last month. Now, it looked almost identical to mine. The same color scheme, the same arrangements—even the decorative stones I had spent weeks picking out from a specialty shop downtown. It felt like my garden was right there, duplicated.
I froze. A chill ran down my spine. At first, I told myself I was imagining it. Maybe we just had similar taste. Maybe she had admired my garden and took inspiration. It’s not like I could claim ownership of gardening, right? But still, something didn’t feel right.
I had to test my theory.
So, I went to the nursery and bought something I absolutely hated—a bright orange marigold. It didn’t fit with my garden at all. The harsh, clashing color would stick out like a sore thumb. I planted it right in the center of my yard, right where it would be visible.
And then, I waited.
A week later, I stepped outside to grab my coffee and almost dropped my mug. There it was. An identical orange marigold—right in Courtney’s garden.
I stared at it, heart pounding. But a few days later, it was gone—just like mine.
This wasn’t a coincidence. My suspicions were confirmed. Courtney was watching me.
Determined to keep my space private, I started spending more time in my backyard, working where Courtney couldn’t see me. If she couldn’t watch, she couldn’t copy, right?
I began doing my gardening late in the evening, working under the soft glow of the porch light. I rearranged my flower beds behind the fence, away from her prying eyes. I even started drinking my tea on the back patio, instead of the front porch, just to avoid her too-bright smile and fake small talk.
It worked—for a while.
Then came the storm.
It hit just after midnight. The wind howled, rattling the windows, making the trees creak. The rain pounded on the roof like tiny pebbles. I barely slept, each gust of wind making it feel like the house might lift off its foundation.
By morning, everything was destroyed.
I stepped outside and immediately felt the chill in the air. The ground squelched beneath my boots. Broken branches were scattered across my yard. My favorite ceramic pot had shattered into sharp blue shards. But none of that compared to the real damage—my fence was gone.
The wooden slats, which had kept my space separated from Courtney’s, now lay in a messy heap, jagged and broken like ribs after a brutal fight. No more barrier. No more privacy.
I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair. It was going to take time and money to fix, but I had no choice—I couldn’t have her spying on me again.
That’s when I saw it. A small red light glowing near the base of the fallen fence.
I froze. At first, I thought it was just a reflection—maybe a trick of the light. But no. The light was steady, deliberate.
My heart pounded as I stepped closer. My breath caught as I crouched down and ran my fingers along the damp wood.
There, nestled perfectly against the fallen fence, was a tiny camera—pointed directly at me.
A shiver crawled up my spine. My skin prickled. My mind raced. How long had it been there? How much had it seen? How much had she seen?
I didn’t hesitate. My blood boiled, my hands shook, but my feet moved with purpose. I stormed across the yard, the cold damp grass against my bare ankles barely registering.
I pounded on Courtney’s front door so hard that the frame rattled. A startled bird flew from a nearby tree.
The seconds stretched on.
Finally, the door opened.
Courtney stood there, blinking rapidly, her polite—too polite—smile pasted on her face. But there was something more—a flicker of panic in her wide brown eyes.
“Oh, hey!” she said, her voice too high-pitched, too casual. “Everything alright?”
I didn’t bother with small talk. My fingers curled around the tiny camera in my hand, and I thrust it toward her face. “Care to explain why I found this hidden in our fence?”
Her smile faltered. She hesitated for a moment before forcing a weak chuckle.
“That’s… that’s just our security system. You know, for safety.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Funny how it was only facing my yard.”
Courtney swallowed hard, stepping back slightly and gripping the edge of the doorframe like she needed something solid to hold onto. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”
My pulse hammered in my ears. Every muscle in my body was tense.
“Then tell me, Courtney,” I demanded, my voice shaking with fury, “why is your backyard an exact copy of mine? Down to the plants I tried and threw out?”
Courtney bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor like a guilty child caught in a lie. “I—I just admired your style,” she muttered weakly.
I laughed bitterly. “Liar.”
Her shoulders flinched, but she didn’t argue. I could feel my heart racing, but I was suddenly exhausted. I shook my head, my grip tightening on the camera before I turned away and walked off.
She wasn’t going to admit the truth. But I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
I spent the next few days plotting my revenge, letting my anger bubble just below the surface. If Courtney thought she could spy on me, steal from me, and get away with it, she had another thing coming.
So, I gave her something new to copy.
On a warm afternoon, I carried a large bucket to the center of my yard. I made sure to do it slowly, dramatically, knowing full well that Courtney was watching from her window. I could almost feel her gaze on my back.
Inside the bucket was a mixture of salt, vinegar, and a few other harmless-looking ingredients—ingredients that were deadly to plants. But, of course, my own garden was safe. I had another bucket filled with plain water hidden behind the shed.
I took my time, stirring the mixture with a wooden stick, pretending to perfect it like a scientist. Then, I dipped my watering can into the bucket, filling it with nothing at all—though Courtney didn’t know that.
I moved carefully, “watering” my flower beds with exaggerated care. I bent down, pretending to check the soil, nodding like I was pleased with my work.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her—standing at her window, eyes locked on me.
Three days later, her garden was dead. Every plant, every flower, every blade of grass—wilted, shriveled, and brown. Even her decorative vines had curled up, looking like they were withering from the inside.
And then, just as I expected, she came to my door.
Courtney looked terrible. Her eyes were swollen, dark circles around them like she hadn’t slept in days. Her shoulders were slumped as though she was carrying the weight of the world. Her usually perfect hair was messy, strands falling out of her loose ponytail.
For a moment, I just stared at her, waiting for some excuse, some feeble attempt to explain herself. But instead, she sighed, exhaling shakily.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice small, almost fragile.
I crossed my arms. “Go ahead.”
Courtney hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the ground, to her ruined garden, to the fence standing between us—a fence that no longer hid her secrets. Finally, she sighed.
“I know I screwed up,” she admitted, her voice wavering. “I copied your garden, I watched you. And now… now my yard is destroyed.”
I should’ve felt victorious. I should’ve savored this moment—the proof that my plan had worked. But something about the exhaustion in her voice, the tiredness in her eyes, made my chest tighten.
I frowned. “Why? Why did you do it?”
Her lip trembled as she bit it, trying to hold back the words she wasn’t sure she was ready to say.
Then, in barely more than a whisper, she said, “Because my husband made me.”
I blinked. “What?”
She looked down, her fists tightening at her sides.
“He’s always telling me I’m not good enough. That I don’t take care of the house the way I should. That I should be more like you.”
She swallowed hard. “He told me to copy you. Everything. The garden, the decorations, even the way you arrange your porch.”
My stomach twisted with a sick feeling. “Courtney…”
She shook her head quickly. “I never wanted to. But if I didn’t, he’d… he’d threaten to leave.”
Her laugh was bitter, almost painful. “Maybe I should’ve let him go. But I was scared.”
And for the first time, I really saw her—not just as the obsessive neighbor, not just as someone who had crossed a line—but as a woman struggling to survive in a world where she was constantly told she wasn’t enough.
Something inside me softened.
“You don’t have to live like that,” I said gently. “You deserve to have your own space. Your own garden. Your own life.”
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “I don’t know how.”
I glanced toward my garden—the one she’d tried so hard to replicate. Then I looked at hers—wilted and lifeless, but full of potential.
“Then let’s start with this,” I said, nodding toward the soil. “Come on. Let’s make something yours.”
And so, we did.
Months later, we stood side by side, admiring her new garden—not a copy of mine, but something uniquely hers. The roses were her favorite shade. The stones along the path were ones she had chosen on her own. The vines curled where she wanted them to.
She took a deep breath, exhaling like she was letting go of something heavy. Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled.
“You know,” she said, voice light, “it’s been a month since I finally kicked him out.”
I grinned, squeezing her shoulder.
“Good,” I said. “One less weed in the garden.”
