I’m Betty, and at 60, I’ve got a green thumb that’d make Mother Nature jealous. My backyard garden? It’s my pride and joy. Every morning, I’d shuffle out there, coffee in hand, and just beam at my little patch of paradise…

Here’s a bit about me — My life took an unexpected turn when my dear husband Greg passed away 12 years ago. At 60, I moved in with my daughter Sarah’s family. It was a blessing in disguise… really.

Sarah and her husband Mark both work demanding jobs, so I stepped in to help with my three wonderful grandkids.

My days are full, picking them up from school, shuttling them to after-school activities, and whipping up hearty dinners. It keeps me young, I tell you!

We live in a snug little subdivision – just 60 properties in all. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your name and probably your business too.

Sarah and Mark were lucky enough to snag not just their home, but the empty lot next door. When they saw how much I missed my old garden, they didn’t hesitate.

“Mom,” Sarah said one day, “why don’t you use that empty lot for a garden? It’d be good for all of us.”

I could’ve hugged her right then and there. And that’s how my little slice of heaven came to be.

It wasn’t just about pretty flowers or having a hobby. This backyard garden was keeping my family fed with the freshest, tastiest produce you could imagine. My grandkids, bless their hearts, were always eager to help.

“Grandma! Grandma!” Little Lily would come tearing across the lawn, her pigtails bouncing. “Can we make strawberry shortcake tonight? Please?”

I would pretend to think about it, tapping my chin. “Well, I don’t know… Are those homework sheets all filled out?”

Lily’s face would fall for a moment before lighting up again. “I’ll do them right now! Promise!”

“Alright then,” I’d say and laugh. “But only if you help me pick the berries later, deal?”

“Deal!” She’d squeal, racing back to the house.

Life was good… until one fateful day.

It started small. A missing cucumber here, a vanished pepper there. Tomatoes that were there a week ago were mysteriously gone. I chalked it up to forgetfulness at first. Maybe I’d picked them and forgotten?

But then came the Great Peach Heist of ’24.

I stood in front of my bare peach tree, hands on my hips, utterly confused. “Sarah!” I called out. “Sarah, honey, did you pick all the peaches?”

She poked her head out the back door, brow furrowed. “No, Mom. Wasn’t me. Why?”

“Because they’re all gone,” I said, gesturing to the tree. “Every last one.”

Sarah stepped out, scratching her head. “That’s weird. Maybe Mark or the kids?”

I shook my head. “Already asked. Nobody’s touched ’em.”

“Huh,” Sarah mused, studying the tree. “You think maybe it was the animals? Squirrels or something?”

“Squirrels don’t pick peaches clean off a tree,” I said, my voice tight with frustration. “Someone’s been in our yard.”

Sarah’s face darkened. “You think someone’s stealing from us?”

I nodded grimly. “I think we might have ourselves a garden thief.”

For the next week, I kept a close eye on my garden. But nothing seemed amiss until that fateful morning. I stepped outside and nearly had a heart attack.

My garden looked like it had been hit by a swarm of locusts. Everything ripe was GONE.

“Sarah!” I hollered, my voice shaking. “Sarah, get out here now!”

She came running, still in her pajamas. “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay?”

“Look!” I gestured wildly at the devastation before us. “Just look at my garden!”

Sarah’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. “Holy smokes,” she whispered. “It’s like… everything’s gone.”

“Everything ripe,” I corrected, my voice trembling. “They left the green stuff. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

Sarah put an arm around me. “I’m so sorry, Mom. This is awful.”

I leaned into her, fighting back tears. “What are we going to do?”

She was quiet for a moment, then straightened up. “We’re going to catch this veggie thief, that’s what. I’ve got an idea.”

That night, her husband installed CCTV cameras around the yard. And boy, did we get an eyeful.

The next morning, Sarah and I huddled around Mark’s laptop, reviewing the footage from the night before. What we saw made my blood boil.

“I can’t believe it,” I muttered, squinting at the screen. There, clear as day, was our new neighbor Wilma, sneaking around my garden like some produce-pillaging ninja.

Sarah’s jaw clenched tight. “That’s Wilma from two doors down, isn’t it?”

I nodded, too angry to speak.

“Want me to go over there?” Mark asked, already half out of his chair. “Give her a piece of our minds?”

I held up a hand. “No, no. I’ve got a better idea.”

“Mom,” Sarah said warily. “What are you planning?”

I stood up, a glint in my eye. “Oh, you’ll see. First, I need to do some cooking.”

I marched into the kitchen and started pulling out some ingredients. Green beans, bacon, blueberries.

Sarah wandered in, looking confused. “Mom? What’s all this?”

“Just whipping up a little something for the greatest garden thief of all time!” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

An hour later, I stood on Wilma’s porch, a basket of food in hand. My knocks grew into thunderous bangs. Finally, her teenage son answered the door, looking puzzled.

“Hi there,” I said brightly. “Is your mom home, sweetie?”

He nodded, turning to call into the house. “Mom! It’s Mrs. Grand from down the street!”

Wilma appeared, looking like she’d seen a ghost. “B-Betty? What are you doing here?”

I held up the basket, smiling wide. “Oh, I just brought you dinner! I noticed you’ve been helping yourself to my garden lately. Wouldn’t want you to go hungry, you know!”

Wilma’s face went from white to beet red in seconds. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.

“Oh, come now,” I said, my voice sickly sweet. “No need to be shy. Here, have some green bean casserole. And blueberry pie for dessert. All fresh from my garden… but I guess you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Without a word, Wilma refused the dinner and slammed the door in my face.

But I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

My next stop was Mrs. Johnson’s house next door. She answered on the second knock, smiling when she saw me.

“Betty! What a nice surprise. What brings you by?”

I put on my best worried face. “Oh, Mrs. Johnson, I’m so concerned about our neighbor Wilma. I think she might be going through some hard times.”

Mrs. Johnson’s face immediately creased with worry. “Oh no, what makes you say that?”

I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Well, I caught her taking vegetables from my garden. In the middle of the night! Can you imagine? She must be desperate to resort to that.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Johnson gasped, hand to her chest. “That poor dear. What should we do?”

I straightened up, nodding solemnly. “I was thinking we could all pitch in. Bring her dinner for the next few days. Show her she doesn’t need to steal to feed her family.”

Mrs. Johnson was already nodding. “Of course, of course. I’ll make my famous pot roast. And I’ll tell the book club… we’ll get the whole neighborhood involved!”

I barely kept from cackling as I made my rounds. By sundown, half the neighborhood was ready to shower Wilma with food and sympathy.

For three days straight, Wilma’s doorbell rang constantly. I watched from my window as neighbor after neighbor showed up with casseroles and concerned faces.

On day four, there was a knock at my door. It was Billy, Wilma’s husband, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Mrs. Grand,” he stammered. “I… we… I’m so sorry about Wilma. Please, how can we make this right?”

I smiled. Oh, I had been waiting for this moment.

The next day, I had Wilma and Billy in my garden, tools in hand. They looked miserable, but I was having the time of my life.

“Now, see here,” I said, demonstrating with my pruning shears. “This is how you properly prune a tomato plant. You want to cut just above the leaf joint, like so.”

Billy nodded, fumbling with his own shears. “Like this, Mrs. Grand?”

I peered at his work. “Close, but not quite. Here, let me show you again.”

Nearby, Wilma was half-heartedly pulling weeds, muttering under her breath.

“What was that, dear?” I called out, not bothering to hide my smirk. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

Wilma’s head snapped up, a forced smile on her face. “Nothing, Betty. Just… admiring your garden. It’s lovely.”

“Oh, it is, isn’t it?” I beamed. “And it’s so much nicer when you put in the work yourself, don’t you think?”

Wilma’s smile tightened, but she nodded, gritting her teeth.

“Well,” I clapped my hands together. “There’s plenty more to do. Those cucumbers won’t trellis themselves!”

As I watched them work, I couldn’t help but feel a little smug. My garden was flourishing, and I’d taught a valuable lesson. Sometimes, the sweetest fruit is the taste of justice.

And you know what? I think Wilma might have learned something too. Last I heard, she was starting her own little vegetable patch. Guess she finally figured out it’s better to grow your own than to take from others.

Theft has harsh consequences, and in some cases, backyard gardening too! What do y’all think, folks?

Here’s another story: 59-year-old Ruby spent two grueling weeks wallpapering a rich couple’s mansion. To her horror, they refused to pay and threatened her. Angered by this injustice, Ruby’s daughter decided to teach the entitled homeowners a lasting lesson.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.