When Maureen loses her husband, her son encourages her to move closer to him and his family. So she packs up her life and moves to a neighborhood closer to him. But as she settles in, she realizes that the neighbors aren’t as friendly as she hoped. Can she win them over, or will she have to move again?
Imagine you are in the twilight of your life, in a new place, without your husband of 50 years.
Recently, William, my husband, passed away, leaving me in our huge house in Virginia. I’ve been here a long time, and I’ve been heartbroken by many things. But nothing prepares you for losing your spouse.
Elderly couple hugging | Photo: Pexels
“Mom, please,” my son Mark said over the phone. “I need you to consider moving. Come, move closer to us; the kids will love having you here.”
“I don’t want to lose my independence, son,” I said. “Your father and I promised not to get involved in your life like that.”
“You don’t have to live with me,” she laughed sweetly. “I’ll find you a place nearby. I’ll start looking and send you options. Okay? Please, Mom, think about it.”
Man talking on the phone | Photo: Pexels
I had to give in. At seventy years old, and although I felt absolutely fine and healthy, I didn’t know if living alone, so far away from Mark, was a good idea.
“Okay,” I said. “You can start looking, and I’ll start sorting things out here.”
When William died, a part of me died too. Suddenly, the world was less vibrant, the days seemed longer, and the silence in our house became stifling.
Flowers on a closed coffin | Photo: Unsplash
I spent my afternoons in the kitchen, making new batches of buns, more than I could eat, which prompted me to send them to my neighbors.
We were all very close, and William and I often hosted parties for everyone in our backyard.
“Are you really going to leave us, Maureen?” Shelley, my neighbor and close friend, said to me.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, pouring tea into cups for us. “But it makes more sense for me to be close to Mark. We’re not getting any younger.”
“So, you have to organize another legendary party before you leave,” Shelley smiled.
Buns on a plate | Photo: Unsplash
The truth was that William and I had been quite popular in our town. Our barbecue restaurant was a beacon for all barbecue enthusiasts across the state. We also had a range of spice rubs that sold well in supermarkets.
William always tried out our new products with our neighbors over dinner.
“Our friends will be honest about this, Maureen,” she always said, her hands rubbing the spices into the meat.
Over time, I started to pack things away. I donated some of William’s clothes and gave away other unnecessary items that wouldn’t be going with me in the move. The more I packed, the heavier my heart became.
Stacked packing boxes | Photo: Unsplash
I would miss everything about my life here. But the consolation prize was my grandchildren.
“Mom, I found the perfect house,” Mark said. “I’ve seen it and I think you’ll love it.”
The next thing I knew, I was packing up my life and heading to California in search of a new adventure.
Within weeks of arriving in my new neighborhood, California presented me with a challenge I hadn’t anticipated. Since we had long since sold our restaurant, I had a lot of free time. Mark took care of all the finances, so all I did was knit on my new porch.
White house | Photo: Pexels
I felt like I didn’t fit in. It was full of young families, kids running across the street to each other’s houses, ice cream in hand.
And although these families were incredibly friendly to each other, they seemed to leave me out: the elderly widow.
My attempts to start a conversation were often met with cold shoulders and suspicious glances, a reaction that puzzled me. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.
Is it my clothes? I wondered.
She preferred to dress simply, in comfortable clothes. There was no need for fancy outfits.
I watched everyone look at my house from the sidewalk.
Old woman sitting by the window | Photo: Pexels
Within a few weeks, my neighbors’ coldness quickly turned into outright hostility. Sarcastic remarks and laughter shadowed my every step: a complete contrast to my old neighborhood.
One evening, as I sat at home watching television and eating a piece of cake, I heard noises outside. I saw unruly teenagers destroying my garden, my daily pride and joy.
They ripped out my flowers and threw trash all over the lawn.
“Would your parents be proud of you? Do you think they would be proud of your behavior? Is this how you treat your elders?” I shouted through the window.
Old woman in the garden | Photo: Pexels
Desperate and alone, I went to bed longing for William’s presence.
The next morning, I called Mark. He was furious when he saw the aftermath of the boys’ nighttime activities.
“Mom, we have to do something about this,” he said, slamming his fist on the table.
I made him a sandwich while he was still fuming.
“I can’t believe it. How can they treat anyone like that? Let alone you.”
I sighed.
“I thought moving here would bring me closer to my family, but this is just loneliness in a different guise, Mark. Do you think it was a mistake?” I asked.
Person preparing a sandwich | Photo: Pexels
Mark stood up abruptly.
“I’ll talk to them, Mom! This can’t go on like this,” she exclaimed.
But I raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
“No, son,” I said. “I have another idea, something that might work. Remember how your father and I would bring people together in Virginia? How our barbecues were about more than just food? They were about bringing everyone together around a meal.”
Understanding dawned in Mark’s eyes, and a slow smile appeared on his face as he recalled those events.
Mark took me to the grocery store and we bought everything I needed, including bottles of our seasoning.
Aisle in a supermarket | Photo: Pexels
Over the next few days, with the help of Mark and his family, my backyard was transformed into an impromptu barbecue paradise. The smoker, an old friend of our house and William’s favorite, took center stage, surrounded by an assortment of sauces and meats that promised a feast like no other.
Mark made flyers and his kids put them up all over the street, inviting people to our event.
As the first wisps of smoke rose into the air, carrying with them the mouthwatering aroma of cooking meat, curiosity replaced the indifference I had grown accustomed to.
The neighbors arrived, attracted by the promise of a meal.
“Good morning, everyone!” I greeted the first of my guests as they arrived, with an expression that was a mix of surprise and intrigue.
“I hope everyone is hungry.”
Meat and vegetables on a table | Photo: Unsplash
A young woman, who had been one of the most distant, approached timidly.
“I didn’t realize you could cook like that,” he said, holding up a plate of sliders. “I’m so sorry for how I treated you.”
The vandals also stood up and looked at me in shame.
“Sorry, ma’am,” one of them said. “Can we come in? It smells delicious!”
I smiled, letting them into the backyard.
As the day progressed, my backyard was abuzz with laughter and conversation, and the air was filled with the scent of spices and smoke. Mark, his wife, and their children mingled with our guests, serving, chatting, and breaking down the invisible barriers that once seemed insurmountable.
Family in the courtyard | Photo: Pexels
Looking at the smiling faces, the empty plates, and the lingering hugs of newly-formed friendships, I couldn’t help but think that William was here with me. The teenagers’ parents promised me that their children would do my gardening.
And the boys themselves nodded enthusiastically.
“It can only get better from here, Mom,” Mark said, handing me an ice cream.
“I think so too,” I said.
I hope so.
Person holding an ice cream | Photo: Pexels
Would you have stayed here or gone back home?
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