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| My three kids loved spending time with our neighbor, Kay, who was like a surrogate grandmother to them. Courtesy of Rachel Schneider. |
When my family moved into what we call our “forever home” in 2019, we made a point to introduce ourselves to the neighbors right away. My husband jokingly refers to this place as our “toe tag house” — the one we’ll stay in until our final days — so it felt essential to know the people who would be part of the fabric of our daily lives.
That’s how we met Mike and Kay, our next-door neighbors, whose home sat just beyond a small, untouched thicket of trees. They were the first to welcome us, offering warm smiles, casual conversation, and even pies. It wasn’t long before Kay and I struck up an unlikely but instant friendship. We had almost 50 years between us, but we shared something powerful: an unconditional love for my children.
At the time, my kids were 2, 4, and 8, and they took to Kay almost immediately. They visited her nearly every day, so often that she gently established a boundary — if the curtain on her sliding glass door was open, they could come in; if it was closed, they needed to wait. It became a little ritual, a silent signal between their home and ours.
Inside, they would color, craft, help with small chores, take slow nature walks, or simply sit with her and talk. She became their surrogate grandmother, and her presence felt like gravity — a quiet, steady pull that kept us coming back to her again and again.
Friendship in a World Without Distractions
Spending time with Kay was like stepping back into my own childhood in the 1990s, visiting my grandmother when life moved at a slower pace. There were no phones buzzing on the table, no social media notifications to steal our attention. When I was at Kay’s, my phone stayed tucked away unless I reached for it to snap a photo — something I rarely did but now treasure deeply. I knew, even then, those pictures would someday be all I had left.
As the months went on, my visits expanded beyond the kids’ time with her. After bedtime, I would slip over for what I came to call our “therapy sessions.” We’d sit in her back room, just two women talking about real life, while the world outside seemed to quiet down. There was no agenda, no pressure to “do” anything. Just conversation, warmth, and connection.
A Relationship That Filled Me Up Instead of Draining Me
Time with Kay didn’t drain my social battery — it recharged it. In her presence, I could breathe easier, and when I left, I felt better prepared to show up for everyone else in my life: my kids, my husband, my coworkers, my clients. I’d kick off my shoes, curl up on her couch, and let her words and wisdom wash over me.
She loved telling stories about the trips she and Mike had taken, painting vivid pictures of places I’d never been. The Kay I knew day-to-day rarely left her house or traded her cotton nightgown for more formal clothes, but in those stories, she became a different woman — adventurous, lively, and unstoppable.
I admired her unhurried approach to life. So many of my friendships revolved around doing things — grabbing lunch, running errands, attending events. With Kay, I learned that the best friendships don’t need all that. If the conversation feeds your soul and the company warms your heart, that’s enough. And with her, it was always enough.
The Reality of Time
Of course, deep down, I knew we wouldn’t have forever. Over the years, Kay’s health began to decline. Breathing became a daily challenge, and even minor illnesses often led to hospital stays. Still, she met each day with quiet resilience.
The last day I spent with her is etched into my memory. She was struggling to breathe, caught in the throes of a panic attack. I sat with her, holding her hand, comforting her as she cried. I stayed beside her in bed until her daughter arrived, and then I knew it was time to go. Before I left, I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me too. I didn’t realize it would be the last time I’d hear her voice.
Just a few days later, on Christmas Eve in 2024, Kay passed away.
Grief That Lives Next Door
Telling my children was heartbreaking. Watching their faces crumble under the weight of the news shattered me. They had lost not just a neighbor, but a grandmother figure — someone who had been a constant, loving presence in their young lives. We’re all still grieving.
Even now, when we walk past her backyard and see the curtains drawn across that sliding glass door, I feel a lump in my throat. The once-untouched thicket between our houses has been mowed into a path, and we still walk it to visit Mike. Together, we keep Kay’s memory alive in shared stories and quiet moments.
What Kay Left Behind
I don’t regret a single second I spent with Kay, even knowing from the start that our time would be finite. She brought so much life into ours, grounding me in the things that matter most: laughter, meaningful bonds, and the kind of companionship that doesn’t require grand plans or perfect timing.
Kay reminded me that life’s richest relationships often grow quietly — not in the rush of doing, but in the stillness of simply being together. And even though she’s gone, the love and lessons she gave us remain woven into the daily rhythm of our lives.
