The day after we moved in, our neighbor Mary, a woman in her 50s, came over with a pie. She was sweet and friendly. She was almost my mom’s age, so I felt comfortable around her. After that, she would wave at us every time we came home.
Yesterday, she brought lasagna for dinner. Then, out of nowhere, she started asking about our basement.
“Need help down there?”
“How did you set it up? I’d love to see.”
At the time, I brushed it off. Now, I see the pattern.
I stepped away for a moment, and when I returned — she was gone.
Then, I heard noises from the basement.
I rushed down and found her going through my drawers. I immediately threw her out. She stammered apologies through tears, but I stood firm.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking. Retracing her steps, I searched the corner of the basement she had fixated on. Something was definitely off.
Then I felt it. A section of the wall was uneven. I pressed on it, and behind it I found a box. Oh boy, I freaked out!!
When I opened it, I FROZE.
For illustrative purposes only.
Inside were photographs. Old, faded, and some curling at the edges.
I recognized one of the faces immediately.
It was the man that had owned this house before us.
I had seen his picture in the listing and heard his story from the realtor. He had passed away some months ago, and his wife had sold the house shortly after.
But what shook me most… was the woman in the photographs with him.
Mary.
The box was full of photos of them together. Some were casual, and others were intimate.
Was Mary so interested in my basement due to this box? Was she looking for these photos?
For illustrative purposes only.
There were a lot of questions in my mind that needed answers. So, I held the box under my arm and went to her house.
It was around 10 p.m. when she opened the door, and it looked like she had been crying. Her red, puffy eyes widened when she saw me. Then, they flicked down to the box in my hands.
“Lara…” she whispered.
Her husband walked past us in the hallway before disappearing into another room.
“Not now,” Mary murmured as she wiped her tears. “Not now, please.”
I nodded and left her place, hoping to return the next day.
This time, she opened the door and stepped aside, letting me in without a word.
We sat at her kitchen table when I placed the box between us.
Then, I pushed it toward her. “This is what you were looking for, isn’t it?”
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid. Then, I heard a quiet, broken sound as she examined the photographs. It was as if she was relieved to see them.
“Thank you,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks.
For illustrative purposes only.
She ran her hand over one of the pictures and it looked like she was thinking about something.
“We loved each other,” she said suddenly while staring at the photograph. “For over thirty years.”
“But…” I began. “But you were both married, right?”
She nodded. “We could never really be together. We had families. Responsibilities. But we always… we always found our way back to each other.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “We knew it was wrong. But we couldn’t stop ourselves.”
What the heck… I thought.
I didn’t know what to say.
She picked up another picture. It was of them at the beach, smiling as the wind whipped through their hair.
“When he died, I realized I had nothing left of him. Nothing but memories.” She whispered. “He used to keep our photographs hidden in his office. He told me his wife never went in there. So, I thought… maybe… he left them behind.”
I exhaled slowly as I tried to make sense of everything.
“So, you kept trying to get into my basement.”
She nodded. “I just… I needed something. Anything.”
I stared at her, trying to make sense of what I was feeling.
Was this a love story? Or was it a story of betrayal?
I wasn’t sure.
In the end, I left the box with her, and she never bothered me again. Never even stopped by to say hi.
This incident made me realize that love isn’t always right. Sometimes, it drives people to do things they can’t control. Things that cross the line. Things that can unravel their lives in ways they never imagined.
