My delivery disappeared for weeks.
Early on, I blamed late drivers, porch mix-ups, and maybe weather damage. But then Amazon sent the reimbursement notice indicating the third missing item was arrived. That raised my suspicions.
I concealed a cheap eBay camera under my porch flowerpot.
And yes. There she was.
Brenda. My neighbor across the street, who wore that horrible visor and called everyone “sweetheart.” She strolled straight up, smiled at my doormat like we were friends, and grabbed the item like it was hers without trying to disguise it.
I avoided her.
Not yet.
Instead, I worked.
Totally DIY petty. Prepared retribution with an empty air fryer box. I neatly wrapped it, put a false delivery label on it, and prominently displayed it on my doorstep.
Camera rolling.
Like clockwork, she returned five hours later.
Inside, I observed her take up the box, hold it to her ear, and shake it.
She checked around and took it home.
About 10 minutes later, I heard the scream.
Not a scream of anguish. The guttural cry of a sucker-punched ego.
I may have stuffed the box with glitter, old tuna cans, and a “Smile!” message. Thief, you’re filmed.”
Petty? Sure.
Satisfying? Absolutely.
Then things became tricky.
Brenda stayed indoors the following day. No gardening, mailboxing, or curbside garbage bags. The radio is silent.
At first, I thought she was ashamed. Good. Let her stew.
After three days, I felt uncomfortable.
Though she took my possessions, she was still a human. I lived across from her for six years. We even split pie at a street celebration.
I went over and rang her doorbell.
No reply.
I knocked.
Still nothing.
Just before I gave up and left, the door creaked open slightly. Behind it was a small slice of Brenda’s face—red eyes, missing visor, messy hair.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“I… I simply wanted to check on you. You okay?
She looked at me like I spoke another language.
She widened the door. Papers, sofa cushions, and half-empty Coke bottles littered her living room like a storm.
Not wishing to interfere, I retreated. I was surprised when she mentioned anything.
I’m sorry. Your items shouldn’t have been stolen. I just—” She paused, staring at her hands. I had no idea what to do.”
I blinked. “You mean what?”
She massaged her eyes and moaned. My son. He was fired in January. He moved in with me with his daughter. Job hunting has been difficult for him. As I struggled to manage bills, food, and diapers, I snapped. I spotted the cartons and thought I might sell or utilize them.”
Not knowing what to say.
Part of me was angry. My stuff was gone. My granny may have raised another portion that felt guilt.
“I’m not proud of it,” she said. “The glitter box was fair. I deserved that.”
It was clear she meant it.
I did something unexpected. I inquired about her needs.
She shook her head. But then she softly inquired whether I had any extra baby wipes or formula. Her granddaughter had one can left and her son’s food coupons hadn’t arrived.
I promised to return in 10.
The diapers from a botched baby shower present, excess food, and an attic play set were in a few bags at home.
When I dropped them off, she sobbed.
Not a huge cry. That silent, overwhelming crying you do when you’re not accustomed to generosity.
I fled to avoid embarrassment, but I was crying too.
Day after, everything changed.
Brenda stopped stealing packages. Not mine or anyone’s.
She began returning items.
Small things. I thought I misplaced my scarf last winter. A Christmas book from my niece. She put them on my doorstep with “I’m sorry” sticky notes. I realize it’s late.”
I think word spread across the neighborhood because other people started helping. Johnsons dropped off a bag of clothing. Formula and toys were provided by others. Even grouchy old Mr. Parsons from the corner granted Brenda’s son a warehouse job.
It seems like one stupid prank gift opened something greater.
But the narrative continues.
Two months later, a white vehicle entered my driveway. A delivery man exited with a new air fryer. The label had no name or return address.
Only a sticky note on top: “For the best glitter bomb I ever deserved. Anyway, thanks for coming. —B”
I laughed so hard I almost dropped it.
Yes, I kept the air fryer.
I also retained something else.
Perspective.
Because sometimes wrongdoers aren’t awful. Very exhausted. They drown. They make stupid judgments in desperation.
That’s no excuse. But it explains.
Brenda lives across the street. She’s back to wearing visors, clipping flowers, and being the neighborhood “sweetheart.”
Only this time, I don’t roll my eyes when she calls me that.
So I grin.
Because I now understand.
She tries.
Everyone is, in their own mess.
I believe I’ve learnt that retribution feels nice temporarily, but grace? Grace lasts longer.
Indeed, she took my parcels.
What did she give me?
Kindness spreads, and sometimes the greatest way to combat petty is with heart.
Would I glitter bomb again?
Oh, 100%. It was still funny.
I’d also knock earlier. Ask questions. Give baby wipes before the drama.
Who knows what scream someone is concealing behind their own door.
The most important thing they need may not be a joke.
A neighbor.
If this story moved you or made you laugh, share it with someone who needs a reminder to be kind. Try like it too.
You never know who is watching or wants to feel seen.