Shrub Thief

It started with a snap, so faint it could’ve been a draught. Mrs. Robinson heard it through her slightly open bedroom window - a clean, decisive sound which was not the cracking of leaves or the squeaking of her garden’s gate. She turned over on her side, Irritated. Again?

The week ago, she had seen holes in her hibiscus shrubs - her beauty queens which were red in color and blossomed in summers. At first, she was blaming it on rabbits. But rabbits did not use scissors.

She had been a resident of Cedarwood Lane for more than four decades and her garden has always been her possession. The neighbors used to tease her that she loved her plants more than people. “Plants don’t deceive you and walk out on you,” she would respond while half laughing, with a spade in her hand. But there was a line that was being crossed. Someone has been getting away with her flowers, and that certainly wasn’t quite right.

The determination now set as she moved to her slippers. This time, she would apprehend them.

--

The next day, the local preferred coffee shop was the center of a gossip storm, more like bees buzzing around. It was unlike Mrs. Robinson in joining idle talk but today was a different scenario.

“I suspect that someone has been stealing from my garden,” she said, lowering her voice for effect. Her spectators- a mix of retired teachers, yoga moms and Mr. Peterson from a nearby house were all ears.

“What’re they taking?” inquired Linda, the bartender with bubblegum pink hair.

“The Hibiscus. The cuts are pretty clean too.”

“Kids,” Mr.Peterson uttered, “Probably some Tik Tok Fun.”

“Or it’s a neighbor,” Linda answered, “Didn’t Sheila say she will plant some hibiscus last month?”

Mrs. Robinson frowned. Sheila? Yes, she liked my garden but that much, to crawl under every night?

“Could be the squirrels,” Linda jumped in.

“Oh please, squirrels don’t have thumbs,” Mrs. Robinson shot back.

The entire room went dead silent.

--

That evening, with a flashlight and a thermos of chamomile tea, Mrs. Robinson settled evidently secure into her back porch while her hibiscus bushes bristled in the soft glow of the moon. To protect her garden from intruders, she had also placed an alarm system – a bell that rings whenever her fence is crossed.

Hours ticked by. Crickets chirped, and the occasional moth fluttered past. Just as her eyelids drooped, there it was again: a snap.

She swiftly turned her flashlight towards the source of noise which was now becoming a routine for them. For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence until she heard a shuffling noise coming from the fence. She was nervous as her heart began to race, but she did her best to keep quiet as she inched forward.

And there he was.

A young man—late twenties, maybe – wearing a dark hoodie which was pulled low over his face. Startled by her light, he froze, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Stop right there!” she commanded, her voice sharper than she intended.

The man darted away. He dashed off so quickly that he disappeared down the alley before she could even think to chase him.

--

The following day, Mrs. Robinson replayed the encounter in her mind. Who was he? She couldn’t place him, and in a neighborhood like Cedarwood Lane, where everyone knew everyone, that was odd.

This time she didn't tell her neighbors, she kept silent. She spent her day consolidating her planning process.

By the end of the day, she had a plan.

--

Two nights later, Mrs. Robinson neither sat on her porch nor set up alarms, instead, she snipped a dozen blossoms of hibiscus from her garden and neatly arranged that on the edge of her garden door. Beside them, she placed a note:

If you need flowers, just ask.

And then she sited on the edge of her chair and waited.

--

At 2:00 a.m., he came again. This time, he didn’t touch the bushes. Instead, he crouched by the gate, hesitating. Mrs. Robinson watched from her darkened living room, her pulse quickening.

After a long pause, the man picked up a flower. He read the note, his shoulders slumping. Then, to her surprise, he walked up to her porch and placed something on the steps.

When he was gone, she retrieved it: a crumpled piece of paper.

Sorry. I’ll explain. Tomorrow. 8 PM.

--

The next evening, Mrs. Robinson waited by the porch, her hands fidgeting with a pair of pruning shears. At 8:00 sharp, he appeared, wearing the same hoodie but without the hood. Up close, he looked younger—maybe early twenties—with tired eyes and a nervous demeanor.

“I’m Daniel,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “I just moved in a few blocks over.”

“Why were you stealing my flowers?”

He winced. “I wasn’t stealing. Well, I guess I was. But it wasn’t for me.”

Mrs. Robinson raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“My mom... she’s sick. Really sick. She loves flowers, but she can’t go outside anymore. She used to garden, you know? Said it made her happy. I thought maybe...” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mrs. Robinson’s grip on the shears loosened. “You thought maybe they’d remind her of better days.”

He nodded, his face coloring. “I didn’t mean to take so many. I just... didn’t know how to ask.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Mrs. Robinson looked at him, there was a loneliness there, a desperation she recognized.

“Well,” she said finally, “you went about it all wrong.”

He flinched, but then she added, “Next time, knock on the door. I’ll give you all the flowers you need.”

--

In the coming weeks, Daniel seemed to be a permanent resident in their company. Every Tuesday and Friday, he’d swing by to collect new cuttings. Mrs. Robinson showed him the things she had learned about flower care over the years.

In return, Daniel brought her small tokens of gratitude: a loaf of bread he’d baked (slightly burnt, but edible), a hand-drawn thank-you card from his mother, even a new pair of gardening gloves after noticing hers were worn.

Slowly, their conversations grew longer. Daniel opened up about his struggles—juggling work, bills, and caring for his mom. Mrs. Robinson shared stories of her late husband and the garden they’d built together.

“It’s not only the plants that need care and attention.” One evening, she handed him a bouquet of daisies and added, “People do, too.”

Grinning, Daniel replied, “Yes. This is one of the things I am beginning to understand.”