When we moved to the little house on Maple Street, I felt a mix of hope and trepidation. After a tough divorce, it was just my 6-year-old daughter, Lily, and me. “It’s okay, Mom,” she said one night. “I don’t like how Dad shouted.” We needed a fresh start.
Mrs. Thompson, our neighbor, reminded me of my grandmother. With her warm smile and freshly baked cookies, she welcomed us. On moving day, she insisted on helping unpack, despite my protests. We chatted and laughed, making the day enjoyable.
As evening approached, she invited me for dinner, and I gratefully accepted. It felt good to have her company, especially after the tough year. She understood my struggles, and her kindness was a balm.
The next morning, I found an envelope on a box addressed to “The New Owner.” Inside was a note from Mrs. Thompson, welcoming us and mentioning a high-maintenance tortoise named Sheldon in the basement. She had cared for him after the previous owner passed away but could no longer manage.
An old woman opening a box | Source: Shutterstock
I realized I couldn’t take on such a responsibility, especially as a single mother. I visited Mrs. Thompson to explain. She understood but looked disappointed when I said I couldn’t care for Sheldon.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, but I declined, needing to pick up Lily. I asked if she could remove Sheldon before I returned. She agreed.
As I sat on the couch later, I felt a sense of guilt. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Thompson, who had been so kind. Suddenly, the new beginning felt burdensome.
The next morning, I made a tough decision: I would sell the house. I told my realtor, “No pets, please.” Moving out so soon wasn’t easy, but it felt right for Lily and me. I hoped Mrs. Thompson would find someone to care for Sheldon. We were ready for a fresh start, free from unexpected responsibilities.
