At first, I thought my neighbor admired my garden. She planted similar flowers, mimicked my layout—it felt flattering, even inspiring.
But then she duplicated everything. The same rose bushes, the exact stepping stones I’d spent weeks choosing. My once-unique sanctuary stood duplicated across the fence. It was unsettling.
Gardening isn’t just a pastime for me—it’s therapy. Every bloom, every leaf is part of who I am. I plan every detail with care. The scent combinations, sun patterns, water needs—I know it all.
So when Courtney’s garden turned into a mirror image of mine, I grew suspicious.
To test her, I planted something out of place: a clashing orange marigold. I hated it. But sure enough, one appeared in her yard too—and vanished two days later, just like mine.
She wasn’t just copying me. She was watching me.
I tried to reclaim my privacy—gardened at night, stayed out of sight. It helped, until a brutal storm tore down the fence between us.
While surveying the damage, I spotted a faint red light near the wreckage.
A camera.
Hidden in the fence. Pointed directly at my yard.
My heart pounded. My sanctuary hadn’t just been stolen—it had been violated.
Rage fueled my steps as I marched to Courtney’s door, the camera clutched tight in my fist.
She opened the door with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I held up the device. “Explain this.”
She stammered something about “security,” but the lies didn’t matter anymore.
“You copied everything,” I snapped. “Even the things I hated.”
She faltered. Then admitted, barely above a whisper, “I admired your style.”
I didn’t buy it. I walked away, seething—and planning.
If she wanted to copy me, I’d give her something to copy.
The next day, I staged an elaborate ruse. I mixed a fake “plant killer” and made a show of watering my garden. From her window, I saw her watching.
Three days later, her entire garden was dead.
She came to my door—hollow-eyed, exhausted.
“I need to talk,” she said quietly.
She confessed: her husband pressured her to copy me. Told her she wasn’t enough. That she should be more like me. Down to the porch decor.
She did it to please him. Out of fear.
In that moment, I saw past the copying and spying. I saw a woman trying to hold herself together under someone else’s thumb.
“You don’t have to live like that,” I told her. “You deserve your own space.”
“I don’t know how,” she whispered.
I pointed to the wilted soil between us. “Then let’s start here.”
And we did.
Months later, her garden bloomed—not a reflection of mine, but her own creation. Her colors. Her choices.
One afternoon, as we admired her handiwork, she smiled and said, “It’s been a month since I kicked him out.”
I grinned and said, “Good. One less weed to pull.”
