My Neighbor Handed Me a List of 12 Complaints. I Replied with Just One Sentence.
The document was printed.
Not scribbled on a scrap of paper or hastily written by hand. It was neatly formatted, with twelve numbered points, proper spacing, and clean margins, as if it had been prepared for a legal hearing.
I held the paper between two fingers.
In forty-three years as a land survey engineer, I had reviewed thousands of documents—property maps, boundary reports, land records, and official surveys.
But never, not once, had someone I had known for only eight days presented me with a twelve-point dossier of complaints.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
The man standing on the other side of the fence nodded.
“Absolutely. Every issue has been documented.”
My husband and I bought our summer cottage twenty-nine years ago.
Semyon was a locomotive engineer. He was the kind of man who could fix anything with his hands. Every board, every shelf, every nail in that little house carried a piece of him.
Five years ago, he died.
One evening he went to bed, and the next morning he never woke up.
After his death, I thought I would never return to the cottage. Everything reminded me of him—the apple trees he planted, the porch he built, even the slightly crooked fence he installed during a scorching summer decades earlier.
But eventually I came back.
At first for a few days.
Then for a few weeks.
Soon I was spending every summer there.
The neighboring lot sat empty for nearly four years after the previous owners moved away to live with their daughter.
Then, one May morning, a white SUV pulled up.
Its new owner stepped out carrying a measuring tape and a notebook. For hours he walked around the property, measuring, writing, and examining every corner.
I waved.
He nodded politely but didn’t approach.
At the time, I thought nothing of it.
A few days later, construction crews arrived. The old cottage was demolished within twenty-four hours, and work began on a modern new house.
I was happy to see activity next door.
An occupied property is better than an abandoned one.
I expected a friendly neighbor.
I was wrong.
The first complaint arrived on the fourth day.
“Does your dog always bark this loudly in the morning?”
Berta, my aging German Shepherd, did bark.
Mostly at his construction workers who arrived before sunrise.
“She’s a guard dog,” I replied. “This isn’t a city apartment complex.”
He frowned and walked away.
The next day he returned.
This time carrying a measuring tape.
“I’ve measured the property line,” he announced. “Your fence extends fifteen centimeters onto my land.”
I almost laughed.
After forty-three years of surveying land boundaries, I knew exactly where that fence belonged.
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.”
“You measured it with that tape?”
His expression hardened.
“I can file a formal complaint.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
After that, the complaints multiplied.
My apple tree was dropping apples onto his property.
My old car was too noisy when I started the engine.
The smoke from my leaf-burning barrel drifted toward his yard.
The radio I listened to while gardening disturbed the peace.
The garden tools leaning against my fence created an “unpleasant visual impression.”
Every day brought something new.
Then, on the eighth day, he appeared carrying a folder.
“I have organized everything,” he said proudly.
Inside was a printed document titled:
COMPLAINTS REGARDING THE OWNER OF LOT 16
I read all twelve points carefully.
The final one made me stop.
“A red-colored cat, presumed to belong to the owner of Lot 16, has repeatedly entered Lot 17 without authorization.”
I looked up.
“The cat?”
“Yes.”
“The orange one?”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t belong to me.”
“But he’s been on my porch.”
“He’s been on everyone’s porch. For fifteen years.”
The man crossed his arms.
“You’re not taking my concerns seriously.”
And in that moment, I finally understood.
It wasn’t about the dog.
Or the apples.
Or the fence.
Or the cat.
It was about loneliness.
Later, I learned his story.
For twenty years he had worked his way up from salesperson to regional manager at a large company.
Then the business collapsed.
He lost his job.
He spent months looking for another one but found nothing.
His wife eventually left him.
They sold their apartment and divided the money.
With his share, he bought the cottage next to mine.
Suddenly, everything he had built his identity around was gone.
No coworkers.
No marriage.
No daily purpose.
Just six hundred square meters of land and a house under construction.
I turned his complaint sheet over.
“Do you have a pen?”
He handed me one.
I wrote a single sentence on the back and returned the paper.
He read it.
“What is this?”
“The phone number of our local community officer.”
He blinked.
“Why would I need that?”
“Because if you want to file complaints, call him. He’ll come out, inspect everything, confirm there are no violations, and probably tell you to stop wasting his time.”
The color drained from his face.
Then I softened my tone.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t know what happened in your life, and I won’t ask. But fighting with your neighbors won’t make any of it better.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his shoulders slumped.
“I just…” he began.
But he couldn’t finish the sentence.
I nodded.
“I know.”
Then I surprised both of us.
“Come over tonight for tea. I made gooseberry jam.”
He stared at me as if I had offered him a fortune.
“Really?”
“Of course. We’re neighbors, aren’t we?”
At exactly seven o’clock that evening, he arrived carrying a box of chocolates.
We sat on the porch.
Berta rested peacefully at my feet.
The notorious orange cat—the same one mentioned in Complaint Number Twelve—jumped onto his lap and immediately began purring.
He looked down in amazement.
“That’s strange. Cats usually avoid me.”
“Not this one,” I said. “He knows who needs company.”
That evening we talked for hours.
About his career.
About losing his job.
About his divorce.
About the fear of starting over at forty-two.
I listened.
Sometimes that’s all a person needs.
Two months later, he became the administrator of our garden community.
As it turned out, he was excellent at it.
He organized road repairs.
Sorted out paperwork.
Negotiated with local officials.
Solved problems for residents.
The same people who had once laughed about his complaint list began praising him.
“Where did you find him?” our community chairwoman asked me one day. “He’s worth his weight in gold.”
I smiled.
“Right next door,” I said. “Hidden behind twelve complaints.”
Today, his house is finished.
It’s beautiful, with large windows and a wide porch.
We often drink tea together in the evenings.
Berta no longer barks at him.
The orange cat still wanders freely between our yards, convinced that both properties belong to him.
And every autumn, the old apple tree drops fruit on both sides of the fence.
Now, instead of returning the apples as evidence in a complaint, my neighbor brings them over in a basket for jam.
I still keep that list of twelve complaints in my dresser drawer.
Sometimes I take it out and reread the line about the “red-colored cat presumed to belong to Lot 16.”
It always makes me smile.
Because life has taught me something important:
Sometimes people don’t start arguments because they’re angry.
Sometimes they do it because they’re lonely.
And sometimes a cup of tea can accomplish what no argument ever could.
