When my family moved into our forever home in 2019, we made it a point to introduce ourselves to the neighbors. My husband jokingly calls this house our “toe tag house” — the place we’ll stay until we expire — so it felt important for us to know the people around us.
Mike and Kay were our next door neighbors, their house is just through an undisturbed thicket. They were the first ones we connected with, exchanging pleasantries and pies.
Kay and I became fast friends. Although we had nearly a 50-year age gap, we had one very important thing in common: We adored my kids. They (then ages 2, 4, and 8) visited her nearly every day, so often that Kay had to implement a boundary: If the curtain on the sliding glass door was open, they could come in, if it was closed, they had to wait.
They would color, craft, go on nature walks, help with chores, and just sit with her and visit. She became a surrogate grandmother to them, and we all felt pulled to her, it was like gravity wanted us to be around her.
Our friendship was completely unplugged
Spending time with Kay reminded me of childhood in the ’90s, when time with my grandma came without the interruption of phones or social media. I rarely touched my phone at Kay’s unless I was snapping one of the few pictures we have together — because I knew one day I’d need them.
Eventually, I started slipping over after the kids’ bedtime so we could chat in her back room. I called those nights our “therapy sessions.” Just two women talking about real life while the world outside slowed down.
She didn’t drain my social battery, she recharged it
Time with Kay didn’t take anything out of me, instead it gave me what I needed to show up better for everyone else: coworkers, clients, my kids’ teachers. At her house, I’d kick off my shoes, curl up on the couch, and soak in her wisdom.
She told stories about the trips she and Mike used to take, and I hung on every word. The Kay I knew rarely left home or changed out of her cotton nightie, but in those stories, she came alive in a different way.
Her homebound nature resonated with me. I loved how unhurried her life was. Most of my friendships revolve around doing things — lunch, errands, events. Kay taught me that the best ones don’t need all that. If the conversation feeds your soul and the company keeps you warm inside, it’s enough. And with her, it always was.
I knew we didn’t have forever
Over time, Kay’s health declined. Breathing became harder. Any illness landed her in the hospital.
On my last day with her, she was having a panic attack about her breathing trouble, and she cried in my arms as I comforted her and held her hand. I laid in her bed with her for a little while, until her daughter arrived and I knew it was time for me to go. I told Kay I loved her, she said it back, and I went home.
She passed away a few days later — on Christmas Eve in 2024. Telling my kids was devastating. Watching their hearts break wrecked me. They’re still grieving. So am I.
When we pass by her backyard and see the curtains on the glass door closed, I choke back tears every time. But where that thicket used to be is a mowed path. We still visit Mike and soak up the memories of Kay together.
I don’t regret a second of becoming best friends with someone I knew I couldn’t have forever. She brought me back to life and reminded me what matters most: the laughter, a strong bond, and good company.
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