The Window That Won’t Stay Closed

Most people worry about burglars, serial killers or the price of eggs. Me? I’ve been at war with a window.

Not metaphorically — though God knows we’ve got enough metaphors in this neighborhood — but a regular double-hung bedroom window in my house that refuses to stay shut.

Now before you think this is just a breeze and a rusty hinge situation in need of some WD-40, let me clarify.

I close it. I lock it. I test it. I walk away.

And sooner or later — it’s open again. Not cracked, not loose, but open. Like someone slid it up with purpose and then walked off breathing through my air.

And no, it’s not a wind issue. This isn’t a Disney cottage.

The first time, I blamed my son, Ethan. He swore up and down it wasn’t him, and considering it was December and he sleeps like a tranquilized cow, I believed him. The second time, I blamed myself — middle-aged brain fog, overloaded schedule, too much coffee and too few vegetables. Fine.

The third time — and this is how you know I wasn’t raised on blind optimism — I started keeping notes.

Window Log

• January 3rd, 6:40 a.m. – Closed, locked, sealed like a courtroom document.

• January 3rd, 4:15 p.m. – Open three inches. Nobody home but the dog, and she lacks thumbs.

• January 9th, 9:00 p.m. – Locked it in front of Ethan.

• January 10th, 7:12 a.m. – Unlocked and halfway up. No footprints in the mud outside. Ground was soft from the rain — someone would’ve left a mark.

At that point, I told myself I was investigating, not spiraling. There’s a difference, and anyone who says otherwise can borrow my blood pressure cuff.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood hummed along like nothing was wrong. Sterling Harper jogged past my house shirtless like we didn’t have eyes. His wife Karen watched everyone like she was paid for surveillance. The Lawlesses were fighting, again. Kayla Jennings kept forgetting trash day and flirting with felony-level laziness. And somewhere between the Dolion widow scowling into her azaleas and Paula Ramirez planning another tiki-night-meets-police-visit, there sat me, standing at a window with a flashlight and a growing sense of uneasiness.

The Day I Knew It Wasn’t in My Head

I set a trap. Not a normal one — I’m not vacuuming glitter off the floor — but one that would tell me if the window was moved. A thin smear of baby powder along the inside sill, barely visible unless disturbed.

The next morning? The window was open two inches. The baby powder showed one fingertip dragged upward. Just one.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t faint. I said: “You’ve got to be kidding me,” made coffee, and told no one. Why? Because once you open your mouth in this neighborhood, people don’t give you sympathy — they give you theories. And I’ve heard enough cracked-up nonsense in this zip code to last two lifetimes.

Besides, I already knew the truth no one likes to say aloud:

Somebody has been in my house before.

Someone probably still has a way in.

And someone — maybe more than one — likes reminding me I don’t know everything I think I know.

It wasn’t the first time I felt watched. And it sure as hell wasn’t the last.