My Neighbor Egged My Door Because I Played the Piano—But My Daughter Didn’t Let It Slide

Martha knew exactly who had done it when she woke up and saw her front door covered in rubbish and eggs.

She played the piano every day, but her nasty neighbor had finally had enough.

However, when her daughter learned, she started a domino effect that would bring everyone together and give one man a lesson he would never forget.

Martha is my name. I’m 67 years old, and I’ve been living alone in my small Maple Street home for the last three years.

George, my spouse, died after a brief illness.

I believe he simply became exhausted, but the medics insisted it was his heart. I’m sick of fighting and getting wounded. In any case, my house has been too quiet ever since he stealthily left one morning.

What’s the most difficult part? It’s the quiet. Abruptly, the corridor is empty of footsteps, the coffee is no longer brewing before I wake up, and the hum from the garage while he fiddles with his equipment has stopped.

His ancient piano is all that’s left that reminds me of our time together.

He purchased it while we were newlyweds and sharing a small flat above a laundry. George saved for months to surprise me with it because we didn’t have much money at the time. When he rolled this large, exquisite object—which hardly fit in our small living room—through the door, I started crying.

Since then, I have played it.

After breakfast every morning, I have a cup of coffee by the window while listening to the same tune that George adored, “Moon River.”

I don’t intend to make my neighbors hear it, nor do I play it excessively loudly. To remind myself that my George is still with me, I play it for myself. For me, listening to music is like breathing. I’m not sure who I would be without it.

My neighbors have generally always been understanding. On warm afternoons, some people have even told me they like to listen to it flow through their open windows.

However, when a new neighbor moved in next door a few weeks ago, things began to shift.

Kevin is his name.

He appeared dissatisfied with something from day one. Perhaps it was life in general or the move. When I became aware of that, I made every effort to be hospitable and kind.

I made him some cookies and left them with a small message on his porch. I assumed he would appreciate the gesture, but apparently not. He never expressed gratitude.

Rather, I began to notice that he was glaring at my house.

He grumbled if someone’s sprinkler was too loud. He would let out a loud sigh and murmur to himself if the postal truck stopped in front of his driveway for too long.

And I would see him looking at my window with this expression on his face anytime I played the piano, even if it was just gently. “How dare you exist within earshot of me?” is the expression that goes along with it.

I initially made an effort to ignore it. After all, life is too short to argue with your neighbors. Perhaps he’s simply going through something, I assured myself. I hoped that if things improved in his life, the resentment would subside.

However, my opinion of him altered one morning.

Like I often do, I got up early. Outside, the birds were singing, and the sun was just beginning to show through the curtains. Before opening the front door to let some fresh air in, I made my customary cup of coffee and added a little cream.

I knew this was going to be a terrible day the moment I went outdoors.

Eggs had splattered my front door. Like tears, thick, yellow yolks trickled down the white paint. As I moved closer, I heard broken shells crunching beneath my slippers as they clung to the wood. My doorstep was littered with trash, including a banana peel, crumpled paper, and an empty Coke can.

The fragrance nearly made me throw up. The scent of rotten garbage combined with uncooked eggs. I put my palm to my nose right away and walked a little distance to the driveway so I could see what had happened clearly.

I just stood there for a while, staring in utter shock. Who would act in this way? Why would somebody act in this way?

Then I became aware of something. There was a faint trail of broken eggshells that led directly to Kevin’s porch across the yard, over the small flower bed I had planted the previous spring.

The realization of what that meant made my stomach turn over. Was this anything he could have done? over the sound of the piano?

I wanted to think there was a mistake or another reason. Teenagers, perhaps. Perhaps it was a mischievous trick.

However, I already knew the truth in my heart.

For another minute, I just stood there breathing and attempting to control the rage that was building inside of me. Next I set my coffee cup on the porch railing and crossed the yard to Kevin’s door at a leisurely pace.

My chest was thumping with my beating heart. My hand went up and I knocked three times.

I gazed at the old welcome mat beneath my feet as I stood on his porch. I had shaking hands.

The door finally opened after what seemed like an eternity.

Kevin was standing there with a coffee mug in his hands, wearing rumpled sweatpants and an outdated t-shirt. He appeared as though he had just gotten out of bed and already detested everything. His eyes were weary, his hair disheveled, and his face was expressionless.

“Kevin,” I said. “Do you know anything about what happened to my front door?”

He sipped his coffee slowly. He remained still. simply gazed at me as if I were worrying him with a pointless matter.

The smallest grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he answered, “Yeah. I did it.”

I briefly believed I had misheard him. It was too much for my brain to process. “You threw eggs at my door?”

He gave a shrug. In fact, I shrugged. As if it didn’t exist.

“Well, yeah. You play that piano every single day, and I’m sick of it. Maybe now you’ll finally get the message.”

My throat became dry and my chest constricted.

“You could’ve just talked to me!” I replied. “You could’ve knocked on my door and asked me to stop, or to play at a different time. I would’ve listened, Kevin. I would’ve worked something out with you.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. There was still that sneer.

“Lady, I’m not gonna waste my time going door to door, asking people to behave. This was quicker. Consider it a lesson. Trust me, you’ll remember it.”

Without saying anything else, he took a step back and slammed the door in my face.

I stood there dumbfounded that this man could have thrown eggs at my door and not felt guilty about it.

I turned and cautiously made my way back to my house, avoiding the trash and broken shells that were still all over my porch. My stomach turned when I smelled it again.

I knelt on the porch steps, filled a bucket with soapy water, and took it from the garage. The rag felt rough and heavy in my fingers as I began to scrape the door. The white paint was streaked with yellow. Shell fragments adhered to the wood like glue.

And tears began to fall down my cheeks as I washed. Despite how terrible my front door and porch looked, I refrained from crying. The fact that someone could be so mean about something as innocuous as a piano and a song I played in remembrance of my spouse made me cry.

I continued to scrape, using the back of my hand to wipe my eyes as I tried to gather myself.

A car then pulled into the driveway, and I heard it.

My daughter Sarah was getting out of her car when I looked up. She had a bag of groceries in her hand and was grinning. She had informed me last week that she would be visiting today, but I had entirely forgotten about it because of everything that had transpired.

As soon as she saw me, her smile vanished. She hurried over after dropping the bag on the floor.

“Mom? What on earth happened here?”

Feeling ashamed, I attempted to get to my feet. I attempted a smile and pushed a lock of hair out of my face. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s nothing. Just a little mess I need to clean up.”

She glanced at the bucket, then at the door, and finally at me. In approximately two seconds, her expression changed from bewildered to enraged.

“That’s not nothing. Someone threw eggs at your house!”

With a sigh, I waved it away. “It’s fine, Sarah. Really. It’s over now.”

She didn’t believe it, though. She squatted beside me and looked over my face. “Mom. Tell me who did this.”

I paused. I didn’t want to stir things up. Drama was not what I wanted. However, Sarah had that expression on her face when she realizes I’m concealing something.

So I told her.

I informed her about Kevin’s dislike of my piano playing. I told her how he slammed the door in my face after admitting it without feeling guilty.

She just stared at me for a long time.

“He did what?”

She got up, took her phone out of her pocket, and headed down the street before I could stop her.

“Sarah, wait—”

“You sit down, Mom. I’ll take care of this.”

She was gone after that.

Sarah began knocking on doors, and I observed from my kitchen window. Mrs. Miller was the first person she spoke to, followed by George across the street and the Johnsons. As she described what transpired, her hands were flying in the air. People stared at Kevin’s house, shook their heads, and strolled out onto their porches.

Sarah returned inside after a few minutes. Despite being out of breath, she was resolute.

“Mom,” she replied in a raspy voice, “everyone is furious. Do you know what most of them told me? Your piano doesn’t disturb them at all. If anything, they enjoy the soft tunes you play.”

“Really?” I inquired.

She gave a nod. “Mrs. Miller said your music reminds her of her mother. She actually loves hearing it. George across the street? He told me his kids fall asleep more easily when you play. And Mr. Robinson opens his window every afternoon just to listen to you.”

My chest constricted. I had been feeling guilty all morning, like if I had done something wrong. Then all of a sudden I felt seen.

Sarah folded her arms. “So no, Mom. You’re not the problem here. He is.”

I could hear voices assembling outside. I noticed neighbors standing on the sidewalk as I made my way back to the window. They screamed out encouraging remarks and waved at me.

“We love your music, Martha!”

“Don’t let that grump get to you!”

Then everyone laughed as George smiled and said something. “You know what? Maybe it’s time we show Kevin what loud really sounds like.”

First, everyone laughed. But then they began nodding, one by one.

Mrs. Miller claimed to still have her college guitar. Her spouse volunteered to play his harmonica. “I’ve got my drum set!” exclaimed Little Ben from the next room.

Sarah smiled mischievously as she turned to face me. “Mom, you might want to make some room on the porch. The neighborhood orchestra’s about to have its first performance.”

I couldn’t contain my laughter. It seemed impossible after such a miserable morning, yet now everything was different. There was now warmth where there had been humiliation. There was now community where there had been cruelty.

Suddenly, the peaceful street where I had felt so alone started to come alive once more.

After our spontaneous street performance, the neighborhood returned to its usual state a few days later. In the distance, sprinklers hissed, dogs barked, and children rode their bikes. However, one thing remained unchanged.

Since then, I hadn’t seen Kevin. His house was utterly silent, his car remained motionless, and his drapes remained closed.

Then I heard footsteps on the gravel path one day as I was watering my flowers. When I turned around, he was there.

Kevin was uneasy as he stood by the fence with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. This time, he was not carrying a coffee mug. It was only a little brown envelope.

Silently, “Mrs. Turner,” he said.

I waited while nodding.

“I came to apologize.”

I remained silent for a moment. Red in the face, he stood up and shifted.

“I shouldn’t have done that. It was childish and cruel. I don’t know what had gotten into me.” He exhaled heavily. “If I damaged your door or your porch, I’ll pay to fix it. Or I can do the work myself, if you’d prefer.”

I smiled a little at him. “Thank you, Kevin. That means a lot. The door’s fine now. I already cleaned it up.”

He looked at the floor and nodded. “Good. I, uh, I heard you playing the other day. It’s actually nice. Peaceful.”

I couldn’t resist laughing. “I’m glad you think so. I promise I’ll keep my concerts short.”

He smiled at that. His shoulders a little lighter than before, he waved briefly and made his way back to his home.

After a few minutes, I returned inside, took a seat at George’s old piano, and tapped the well-known keys. Warm, golden light danced across the ivory as it flowed through the window in the late afternoon.

And when I started playing “Moon River,” I came to a straightforward yet accurate realization.

Even the coldest hearts can occasionally be reminded to be human by a simple music.