The $227 electric bill was sitting beside my coffee when I realized something was seriously wrong. At 64, living alone in the same suburban house I had shared with my late husband, Eleanor, I rarely used enough electricity to surprise anyone. My monthly bill had nearly doubled, yet the thermostat barely moved and my appliances were relatively new. I called my daughter Diane, checked the meter twice, and even wondered whether the utility company had made a mistake. But several nights later, a faint humming sound pulled me toward my bedroom window. Parked beside my garage was my neighbor Monica’s white electric car, with a charging cable running directly to my outdoor outlet.
I confronted Monica immediately, expecting embarrassment or at least an apology. Instead, she shrugged and told me I lived alone and therefore didn’t need much electricity. She even offered me $10, as though that settled weeks of secretly using something I was paying for. I ordered her to unplug the car and watched her leave with an irritated expression. Monica assumed I would eventually calm down, just as I had when my garden decoration disappeared and my lawn mower was returned empty and damaged. But the next morning, instead of arguing again, I made one quiet change she never expected.
