I assumed my neighbor liked my garden. A few comparable flowers and a matching layout—flattering? But when she replicated every detail, I was dubious. I discovered a hidden camera emitting a tiny red light following my every move after a storm toppled our fence.

Gardening is my passion, escape, and the thing that makes my house feel like home.

Every flower, bush, and meticulously picked vine represents me.

In addition to planting, I mold my environment by hand, making something alive and part of me.

I spend hours choosing, arranging, and caring for plants.

Morning sunlight tells me which blooms will thrive in each place.

I know how much water each plant requires, the correct soil mix, and how their odors will merge by afternoon.

I initially complimented my neighbor Sarah for making comparable decisions.

A few flowers and rosemary—no problem. Gardening is meant to inspire. I didn’t own nature.

But then I noticed more.

I saw movement in my peripheral vision one morning while watering my deep red roses with my hose.

Sarah watered her crimson yard.

I frowned. Wasn’t her garden blooming yellow and white last month? Looking over, I scanned her yard. It almost matched mine.

The identical arrangements, colors, and ornamental pebbles I spent weeks choosing from a downtown shop.

My special, carefully-built sanctuary was doubled.

A cold rushed through me.

I thought I was overthinking it. Maybe we shared similar tastes.

She may have been inspired by my work. I didn’t own gardening copyright.

It didn’t feel right.

I tried it.

I bought a brilliant orange marigold from the nursery that didn’t fit my yard.

I placed it in the middle of my yard, a bright spot in my exquisite setting.

Then I waited.

Walking outdoors a week later, I nearly spilled my coffee. It existed. A matching orange marigold. In Sarah’s garden.

My heart raced as I watched.

It vanished two days later.

Exactly like mine.

It was no coincidence. She watched me.

To reclaim my space, I worked in my backyard, where Sarah couldn’t see. Without watching, she couldn’t copy, right?

Gardening in the evenings beneath my porch light. I moved my flower gardens behind the fence to avoid her curious gaze.

I started taking tea on the back patio instead of the front porch to avoid her phony smile and small conversation.

It worked briefly.

The storm hit last week.

After midnight, the wind howled, rocking windows and creaking trees.

Rain fell like boulders on the roof, and a limb snapped loudly nearby.

I barely slept. Every gust felt like it could rip the home apart.

By daybreak, chaos reigned.

Stepping outside felt damp and cold. Mushy ground under my boots.

Broken branches littered my once-perfect lawn, and my beloved ceramic pot was smashed into sharp blue bits. But worse was still to come.

My fence fell.

The wooden slats that separated my space from Sarah’s were splintered and jagged like bones after a battle.

Barrier gone. No privacy.

Sighing, I stroked my tangled hair. Fixing it would take time and money, but I couldn’t let her see me again.

A little red light appeared near the fallen barrier.

I froze.

At first, I assumed it was light reflecting off wet wood. But no. Light was purposeful and steady.

I approached, heart racing. My breath caught as I crouched and stroked the moist wood.

A little camera was hidden in the fence until the storm.

Pointed at my yard.

At me.

I shivered. Skin pricked. My thoughts raced.

It was there how long? How much did it see? How much did she see?

I clenched my fists and twisted my gut.

Sarah didn’t blindly copy me.

She spied.

I acted immediately. My blood was boiling, my hands shaking, but my feet marched purposefully. The moist grass was cool on my bare ankles as I ran across the yard. I barely noticed.

I was enraged when I approached Sarah’s front porch. The door frame trembled from my strong knocks. An alarmed bird fled a nearby tree.

Seconds dragged.

Finally, the door opened.

Sarah stood there blinking quickly, pretending to grin. There was also a glimmer of fear in her large blue eyes.

“Hey!” Too loud and nonchalant was her voice. “Everything okay?”

I avoided chatter. My palm held the little camera, which I shoved toward her face. “Why did I find this in our fence?”

Her smile faded. She hesitated before laughing weakly.

“That’s just our security system. Yes, for safety.”

Narrowing my eyes. “Funny how it only faced my yard.”

Swallowing hard, Sarah She recoiled, clutching the doorframe like she needed to cling on. “Not like that. I swear.”

I felt my pulse in my ears. Every muscle tensed.

“Then tell me, Sarah,” I raged, “why is your backyard a perfect copy of mine? What about the plants I tried and discarded?

Bit her lip. She looked at the floor like a child caught lying. “I—I just liked your style,” she murmured. “All done.”

My laugh was harsh. “Liar.”

She flinched but didn’t argue.

Suddenly, I was tired despite my racing heart. I shook my head and grabbed the camera one final time before turning and leaving.

She wouldn’t confess.

But I wouldn’t let her get away with it.

My rage simmered as I planned my revenge for several days.

Sarah imagined she could snoop, steal, and escape? Fine. If she wanted to copy me, I’d give her something.

I executed my plan on a lovely afternoon.

Being aware that Sarah was looking from her window, I slowly dragged a large bucket to the middle of my yard. I sensed her gaze.

The bucket contained salt, vinegar, and other harmless chemicals.

A great plant combination. But my garden was safe—I had another pail of plain water behind the shed.

I slowly stirred the mixture with a wooden stick, pausing to inspect it like a recipe.

I then dipped my watering can into the bucket and filled it with nothing, but Sarah didn’t know.

I tilted the can to simulate watering my flower beds slowly.

I bent down and pretended to check the soil, nodding like I was pleased.

She stood by her window, staring at me, in my peripheral vision.

Completely hooked.

Three days later, her garden died. Completely.

Once vibrant blossoms had become brittle, drab stalks. The green grass looked sparse and dry.

Even her ornamental vines shriveled like snakes.

She arrived at my door as expected.

Sarah looked dreadful. The big eyes and dark, worn skin surrounding them looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

She slumped like she was carrying a load. Her usually immaculate hair fell from a loose ponytail.

I stared, expecting an excuse or a lame explanation. Instead, she shakily responded, “I need to talk to you.”

Her voice was weak and frail.

I crossed arms. “Go ahead.”

Sarah paused. She looked at the ground, her withered flowers, and the fence between us—back up but no longer hiding secrets. Finally, she sighed.

“I know I messed up,” she said. Her voice shook, her fingers twisted in front of her.

I watched and replicated your garden. Unfortunately, my yard is now damaged.

I should have triumphed. I should have relished this moment—proof my plan worked.

Her voice and fatigue made my chest clench instead.

I frowned. “Why?” The question blurted out before I could stop… Why you did it?

Lip trembled. She pushed it together, as if holding back words.

She whispered, “Because my husband made me.”

I blinked. “What?”

Her hands formed little fists as she stared down.

He keeps claiming I’m not good enough. That my housekeeping is poor. That I should emulate you.”

Swallowed hard. “He told me to copy you. Everything. The lawn, decorations, and porch setup.”

I felt nauseous.

“Sarah…” My voice softened.

She shook her head quickly. I didn’t want. Without my intervention, he would threaten to leave.

Her bitter laugh didn’t match her tears. “Maybe I should have let him. But I was scared.”

I initially saw her. She was more than a nosy neighbor or idea thief.

She struggled in a world that told her she wasn’t enough.

Somehow I softened.

“You don’t have to live like that,” I replied gently.

“You deserve privacy. Garden of your own. Your life.”

Her loose sweater sleeve wiped her eyes. “I dont know how.”

I inspected my yard, which she had tried to replicate. I glanced at her dead but promising.

“Then let’s start here,” I answered, gesturing to the soil. Come on. Make something yours.”

And we did.

Months later, we stood side by side, admiring Sarah’s new garden—not mine, but hers.

Her favorite rose color was not mine.

She chose the route stones, not mine. Her vines flourished as desired.

She exhaled deeply, seeming to release something weighty. First time in ages, she grinned.

“You know,” she remarked, her voice lighter, “it’s been a month since I finally kicked him out.”

Squeezing her shoulder, I smiled.

“Good,” I said. Just one fewer weed in the garden.”