I thought my neighbor, Courtney, admired my garden. After all, she had planted a few of the same flowers and had even set up her layout similarly. Flattering, right? But when I noticed she had copied every detail of my garden, I began to wonder. The storm that knocked down our fence revealed the truth—a tiny red light blinking from a hidden camera, secretly watching my every move.
Gardening isn’t just something I do for fun. It’s my therapy, my escape. It’s the one thing in my life that truly makes my house feel like a home. Every flower, every bush, every vine is a piece of who I am. I don’t just plant things; I shape the earth with my hands and make something beautiful. It’s alive, it’s mine, and it’s a reflection of me.
I spend hours researching the perfect plants for each corner of my garden. I know how much water each one needs, where the sun hits the hardest, and how the scents will mix in the air as the day goes on. My garden is a sanctuary, and I take pride in the way I curate it.
That’s why, when I saw Courtney making similar choices, I assumed she admired my work. A few tulips here, some lavender there—it made sense. After all, gardening is supposed to inspire. But then it started to feel off. One morning, while watering my deep red roses, I caught a glimpse of movement. I looked up and saw Courtney in her garden, watering roses the exact same shade of red.
I froze. Her garden had been filled with pink and white flowers just a few weeks ago. Now, it was a near-perfect copy of mine. The same colors, the same arrangements, even the same decorative stones I’d painstakingly selected from a shop in town. My unique garden had become a duplicate.
I told myself I was overreacting. Maybe we just had similar tastes. After all, no one owns nature. But deep down, something didn’t feel right. I decided to test my theory. I bought a bright orange marigold—something I absolutely hated—and planted it right in the middle of my garden, just to see if she’d copy it.
A week later, I almost dropped my coffee when I saw it. There, in the middle of her yard, was an identical orange marigold. My heart skipped a beat. And then, two days later, it was gone. Just like mine.
She wasn’t just inspired by me—she was watching me. Spying on me.
Determined to stop her, I started gardening when Courtney couldn’t see me. I worked in the evenings, behind the fence, where she couldn’t watch. I rearranged my flower beds in places where she couldn’t peek. It worked—for a while.
Then, last week, a storm hit. The wind howled, rattling the windows and making the trees groan. Rain pounded the roof like hail, and somewhere in the distance, I heard a branch snap. I barely slept, the wind fierce enough to make me wonder if the house would be torn apart.
By morning, the damage was extensive. I stepped outside to find my garden in disarray—branches broken, my favorite ceramic pot shattered. But the worst damage was to my fence. The wooden slats that separated my yard from Courtney’s were now a heap of jagged debris. No more barrier. No more privacy.
I sighed, surveying the damage. It would take time to fix, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let Courtney spy on me anymore.
That’s when I noticed the red light. It was faint at first, but unmistakable. A small blinking light near the base of the fallen fence. It couldn’t be a reflection. No, it was deliberate.
I crouched down and ran my fingers along the wet wood. Hidden there, nearly invisible until the fence had fallen, was a tiny camera—pointed right at my yard. At me.
A chill ran down my spine. How long had it been there? How much had she seen?
I didn’t hesitate. My blood was boiling, my hands trembling, but my feet moved with purpose. I stormed across the yard, barely noticing the cold grass against my bare ankles. I reached Courtney’s front porch, furious, and pounded on the door until the frame rattled.
Seconds stretched into what felt like hours.
Finally, she opened the door. Courtney stood there with a smile—polite, but too forced. Her eyes widened as she saw me holding the camera.
“Oh, hey!” Her voice was too high-pitched, too casual. “Everything alright?”
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. My hand clenched the tiny camera, and I thrust it toward her face. “Care to explain why I found this hidden in our fence?”
Her smile faltered, and for a moment, she hesitated. Then she forced out a laugh. “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 stepped back, her hand gripping the doorframe like she needed something solid to hold on to. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. “Then tell me, Courtney,” I demanded, my voice shaking with anger, “why is your backyard an exact copy of mine? Down to the plants I tried and threw out?”
She bit her lip, looking guilty. “I—I just admired your style,” she muttered.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Liar.”
She didn’t argue. She just looked down at the ground.
I felt drained, but I couldn’t let her off the hook. I turned and walked away, shaking with fury and exhaustion. She wasn’t going to admit the truth, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
For the next few days, I planned my revenge. Courtney had thought she could spy on me and steal my ideas with no consequences. Fine. I’d give her something new to copy.
One afternoon, I set my plan into motion. I dragged a bucket filled with a plant-killing concoction into the middle of my yard, knowing full well that Courtney would be watching from her window. Inside the bucket was a mixture of salt, vinegar, and other harmless-looking ingredients—harmless for me, that is. My real watering bucket, filled with plain water, was hidden behind the shed.
I took my time, stirring the mixture like a mad scientist perfecting a formula. Then, I dipped my watering can into the bucket and began “watering” my garden. Courtney was watching, I could feel her eyes on me as I pretended to check the soil and nod with satisfaction.
Three days later, her garden was completely dead. Her vibrant flowers were now brown and brittle. The once-green grass was dry and patchy. The decorative vines had withered.
As I expected, she showed up at my door, looking like a wreck. Her eyes were swollen, and her usually perfect hair was unkempt. She stood there, shoulders slumped, as if carrying a heavy burden.
“I need to talk to you,” she said softly.
I crossed my arms. “Go ahead.”
Courtney looked at the dead garden, at the fence between us, and sighed. “I know I screwed up,” she admitted. Her voice cracked. “I copied your garden. I watched you. And now… now it’s destroyed.”
I should have felt victorious, but there was something in her voice that stopped me. “Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.
She bit her lip and stared at the ground. “Because my husband made me,” she whispered.
I blinked. “What?”
Courtney clenched her fists. “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 everything. The garden. The decorations. Even the way you arrange your porch.”
A sick feeling settled in my stomach. “Courtney…”
“I never wanted to,” she said, shaking her head. “But if I didn’t, he’d threaten to leave. I was scared.”
Her voice broke. “Maybe I should have let him go. But I didn’t have the courage.”
For the first time, I saw her—not as an obsessive neighbor, but as someone trapped. “You don’t have to live like that,” I said gently. “You deserve to have your own space. Your own garden.”
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “I don’t know how.”
I looked at her wilted garden, then back at mine. “Let’s start with this,” I said, gesturing toward the soil. “Come on. Let’s make something yours.”
Months later, we stood side by side, admiring her new garden. It wasn’t a reflection of mine. It was uniquely Courtney’s. The roses were her favorite shade, the stones she had chosen herself, and the vines grew where she wanted them.
She took a deep breath, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever. “It’s been a month since I kicked him out,” she said.
I grinned. “One less weed in the garden.”