I used to think my neighbor, Courtney, admired my garden. We had some similar flowers, and her layout seemed like a reflection of mine—flattering, right? But as time went on, and she copied every single detail, something didn’t sit right with me. Then, after a storm blew through and knocked down our fence, I discovered the truth. A tiny red light blinked from a hidden camera, watching my every move.
Gardening has always been more than just a hobby for me. It’s my passion, my therapy. It’s the one thing that makes my house feel like a home. Every flower, every shrub, every vine I plant is a piece of who I am. When I’m outside, hands in the dirt, shaping my little corner of the world, I feel at peace.
I don’t just throw plants in the ground and call it good. No, I research, I adjust layouts, and I nurture each plant. I know which flowers will thrive in which part of the yard, depending on how the morning sun hits. I know the perfect balance of water and soil, the exact way the scents mix in the afternoon breeze.
That’s why, at first, I thought it was sweet when Courtney started planting similar things. A few tulips here, some lavender there—no big deal. Gardening is meant to inspire, after all. I didn’t think I owned nature. But then, things started to get a little too… close.
One morning, I was watering my deep red roses, the water glistening as it soaked into the soil. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. There was Courtney, watering her roses. But they were the exact same shade of crimson. Hadn’t her garden been full of pink and white flowers just last month? I glanced over. It was almost like looking at a mirror image of my own yard.
The layout, the colors, even the decorative stones I’d spent weeks hunting down from a specialty shop—they were all the same. My garden, my sanctuary, was now duplicated. A chill ran down my spine.
I tried to brush it off. Maybe we just had similar tastes, right? Maybe she admired my work and took some inspiration. But the unease kept gnawing at me. I had to know for sure. So I decided to test her.
I bought a plant I absolutely hated—an orange marigold, something so garish it didn’t belong in my garden at all. I planted it smack in the middle of my yard, where it would stand out like a sore thumb against the soft, muted colors I usually chose.
I waited.
A week later, I stepped outside with my coffee, and almost dropped it when I saw it—an identical orange marigold, sitting right in the middle of Courtney’s yard. I couldn’t believe it. My heart raced. But two days later, it was gone. Just like mine.
This wasn’t a coincidence. She was watching me. My blood boiled, my hands clenched into fists. But I didn’t say anything. Not yet.
I started spending more time in my yard, working in places where Courtney couldn’t see me. If she couldn’t watch, she couldn’t copy, right? I moved my gardening to the evenings, working under the glow of the porch light, where her prying eyes couldn’t reach.
It worked for a while. But then, the storm came.
The wind picked up around midnight, howling through the trees, rattling the windows. Rain hit the roof like a thousand pebbles being thrown at it. I barely slept, feeling like the house might be swept off its foundation with each gust of wind. By morning, everything was a mess.
I stepped outside, the damp air chilling my skin. The ground squelched under my boots, and broken branches littered the yard. My favorite ceramic pot was shattered into pieces. But the real damage? My fence was gone.
The wooden slats that had separated my space from Courtney’s lay in a tangled mess on the ground. No barrier, no privacy. My heart sank. It would take time and money to fix, but I couldn’t let Courtney see me anymore. She couldn’t spy on me again.
And then I saw it. A small red light blinking from the wreckage of the fence. My breath caught in my throat. At first, I thought it was some trick of the light. But no. The light was steady, deliberate.
I stepped closer. There, hidden perfectly in the broken fence, was a tiny camera. It was aimed directly at my yard. At me.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. How long had it been there? How much had it seen?
Without thinking, I stormed over to Courtney’s house. My feet were cold against the wet grass, but I barely felt it. By the time I reached her porch, I was seething with anger. I knocked on the door so hard the whole frame rattled.
The door swung open. Courtney stood there, blinking, her smile way too wide, her eyes full of a panic she couldn’t hide. “Oh, hey!” she said, her voice high-pitched. “Everything alright?”
I didn’t waste time. I thrust the tiny camera in front of her face. “Care to explain why I found this hidden in our fence?”
Her smile faltered. She took a step back, her fingers clutching the doorframe like she needed it to stay upright. “It’s just a security camera,” she said, her voice shaking. “For safety.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Funny how it was only facing my yard.”
Courtney swallowed, her face paling. She stepped back, the door creaking as if it were trying to escape her lies. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”
I could feel my pulse racing. “Then tell me, Courtney,” I demanded, voice trembling with fury, “why is your garden an exact copy of mine? Down to the plants I tried and threw out?”
She bit her lip, glancing down, unable to meet my eyes. “I… I just admired your style,” she said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I let out a harsh laugh. “Liar.”
She flinched but didn’t say anything. I was so angry, my whole body was tight with it. But then, suddenly, I felt something else. Exhaustion. I was done with the confrontation. I turned on my heel, my grip tight around the camera as I walked away.
But I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
The next few days, I plotted my revenge. Courtney thought she could steal from me and get away with it? Fine. If she wanted to copy me, I’d give her something to copy.
On a sunny afternoon, I put my plan into action. I dragged a large bucket into the middle of my yard, moving slowly, making sure Courtney was watching from her window. I could feel her eyes on me as I poured a mixture of salt, vinegar, and a few other ingredients into the bucket. This was a deadly combination for plants, but my garden was safe. I had another bucket of plain water hidden behind the shed.
I took my time, stirring the mixture like I was a scientist perfecting a formula. Then, I grabbed my watering can and filled it with nothing at all—Courtney wouldn’t know that. I began to “water” my plants, acting like everything was normal, pretending to inspect the soil.
And sure enough, I saw her. Standing at her window, eyes glued to me. Hook, line, and sinker.
Three days later, her garden was dead. Completely. Her once-beautiful flowers had withered into brown stalks, the grass dry and patchy, even her vines shriveled up like dead snakes.
And, as expected, she came to my door.
She looked like a mess—eyes swollen, face exhausted, her hair a tangled mess. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, like she was carrying some heavy weight. Finally, she exhaled shakily and said, “I need to talk to you.”
I crossed my arms. “Go ahead.”
Courtney looked at the wilted flowers in her yard, the broken fence between us, then sighed. “I know I screwed up,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I copied your garden. I watched you. And now… now my yard is destroyed.”
I should have felt victorious. But something in her voice made me pause.
“Why?” I asked softly. “Why did you do it?”
She looked down, hands twisted in front of her. “Because my husband made me,” she said, barely above a whisper.
I blinked. “What?”
Courtney’s voice cracked as she looked away, tears welling up. “He’s always telling me I’m not good enough. That I don’t take care of the house like I should. That I should be more like you.”
Her shoulders slumped. “He told me to copy everything. Your garden, your decorations, the way you arrange your porch. If I didn’t, he’d… he’d threaten to leave.”
I felt a pit form in my stomach. “Courtney…” My voice softened.
She shook her head, bitterly laughing through the tears. “Maybe I should’ve let him leave. But I was scared.”
For the first time, I really saw her. Not just as the obsessive neighbor, but as a woman trying to survive in a world where she was constantly told she wasn’t enough.
“You don’t have to live like that,” I said gently. “You deserve your own space. Your own life. Your own garden.”
She wiped at her eyes, looking at me like she wasn’t sure she believed it. “I don’t know how,” she whispered.
I glanced at her yard—the one she’d tried so hard to copy—and then at mine. It was time for her to find her own path.
“Then let’s start with this,” I said, nodding toward the soil. “Come on. Let’s make something that’s yours.”
And that’s how it began. Months later, we stood side by side, admiring her garden. It wasn’t a copy of mine. It was Courtney’s—unique and beautiful in its own way.
And for the first time, she smiled.
“You know,” she said, “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.”
