My new neighbors had been living next door for barely a week when I found their twin toddlers curled up inside my empty trash can.
Until that morning, I hadn’t even known there were children in the house.
The property had stood empty most of the summer before a moving truck finally appeared one Friday afternoon. I was watering the flowers along my porch when I noticed a dark SUV pull into the driveway.
A man stepped out first.
He was tall, heavy through the shoulders, and kept looking up and down the street while the movers carried boxes inside.
A woman followed him.
She looked around my age, maybe a little younger. She had dark hair pulled into a loose knot and stood with her arms wrapped around herself despite the warm weather.
I almost walked over to introduce myself.
That was normal on our street. People borrowed ladders, brought soup when someone was sick, and picked up each other’s packages.
But something stopped me.
The man kept close to the woman the entire time. Whenever she moved toward the sidewalk, he seemed to move with her.
Neither of them waved.
So I decided I could introduce myself another day.
That day never came.
For the next week, I saw almost nothing of them.
Their curtains stayed shut.
The SUV left early and sometimes returned late at night.
Once, I saw the woman standing at an upstairs window. Before I could lift my hand to wave, she disappeared behind the curtain.
Still, I never heard children.
No toys in the yard.
No little shoes on the porch.
