Our neighbor was known as the kind of person nobody wanted to deal with. Short answers, slammed doors, muttered complaints about kids being too loud or cars parked too close.
People said she hated everyone, and I believed it too—until I saw her one morning walking toward the park with a plastic bag tucked under her arm.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I followed.
And that’s when I saw it—her surrounded by pigeons, pouring handfuls of seeds into the air. She wasn’t angry, or bitter, or sharp-tongued. She was smiling.
Actually smiling. Birds perched on her arms, her shoulders, even her head, and she didn’t care. She looked… free.
Later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The woman who scowled at my mother when she asked about recycling bins was the same woman who laughed as pigeons pecked at her shoes. I wanted to understand why she was so different out there compared to the street where we lived.
The next morning, I pretended to go for a jog but really just waited near the park entrance. Sure enough, she came walking up the path again, same bag under her arm, same brisk steps. I stayed back, careful not to be noticed, but close enough to watch. And there it was again—her whole face lighting up the moment she saw the first pigeon flutter down.
She knelt, scattering seeds gently, talking softly to the birds like they were old friends. I realized then that this wasn’t just a random hobby. This was something she did every day. Something she needed.
I kept the secret for a while, just watching from a distance. But one morning she caught me.
“You following me?” she asked, voice sharp but eyes not as harsh as usual.
I froze, embarrassed. “I… I was just jogging. Sorry if I—”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she said, but there was almost a smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, since you’re here, grab a handful.” She held out the bag.
I hesitated but stepped closer. The pigeons didn’t scatter; they seemed to trust her completely. She poured a small pile of seeds into my palm, and before I could even react, two pigeons hopped onto my hand, pecking away.
“They like you,” she said.