As I finally made the turn onto my street after a long and exhausting two-week business trip,

I felt a wave of relief wash over me at the thought of seeing my bright, cheerful

canary-yellow home once more. Painted with love by my late husband, Julian, it has always

served as a vibrant reminder of the joyful life we shared together. As I got closer, I could sense that something wasn’t quite right.

The bright, sunny brilliance I had anticipated was nowhere to be found, leaving behind a dull,

lifeless gray exterior. I slammed my foot on the brake, the tires screeching in protest.

I found myself double-checking the house number—perhaps I had taken a wrong turn onto the street.

But it turned out the number was correct. This dreary, lifeless building was where I lived.

I’m Irene. At 57, I consider myself to be quite patient overall. When you’ve lovingly painted

your home in the color your late spouse adored, only to see it tarnished by intrusive neighbors,

it’s hard to keep your cool. Two years back, a rather tense newlywed couple, Franklin and Ava,

settled in next door. From the very first day, they couldn’t stand the bright color of my house.

While the rest of the neighborhood celebrated its joy, they looked on with disdain. They never

stopped complaining, always throwing out snarky comments whenever I was outside watering the flowers or trimming the hedges.

Franklin often joked about the house color, nudging Ava and saying, “Bright enough for you, Irene?”

She would let out a deep sigh, grasping her pearls tightly and rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“Have you thought about something a bit more neutral?” she’d say, her voice dripping with

condescension, as if I’d just suggested turning the Statue of Liberty into a neon pink spectacle.

I really should have just ignored them. Many of my neighbors appreciated the warm, sunny vibe

that my house added to the street. Old Mr. Casella from across the street once mentioned that

it reminded him of the Tuscan sun; Mrs. Huynh would always smile and say it brightened her day.

Yet, the newcomers were set on spoiling my fun. They exhausted all options—filing complaints with

the police about the “blinding brightness,” submitting petitions to the city regarding “safety hazards,”

and even launching a frivolous lawsuit that was dismissed before it could really take off. Nothing seemed to work.

When I headed out of town for a two-week consulting gig, I figured I’d return to the same familiar,

cheerful scene. Instead, I found myself gazing at a dull, gray structure—my beloved home completely

changed into a somber block of cement. My blood boiled when it hit me who was behind this:

Franklin and Ava, the self-proclaimed keepers of the mundane.