That night, we made Halloween cupcakes and caramel apples, letting the kids decorate freely. Derek finished scrubbing quietly and left without another word. His fog machines stayed silent, the music stopped, and for the first time in years, the holiday felt calm next door. That Halloween, I learned something invaluable: you can’t control your neighbors, but you can control your reactions. Justice doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it looks like standing in your kitchen with a cup of coffee, watching someone else clean up their own mess. And in doing so, protecting what truly matters — your peace, your home, your kids, and your dignity.
“Mom,” Max asked the next day, “are you mad at the skeleton man?” “Skeleton, baby,” I reminded him. “No. I’m proud. Proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly, and that I handled it without becoming someone I’m not.” They nodded, perfectly understanding. And that, I realized, was the best lesson any holiday could teach.
