I used to think of myself as someone who could roll with the punches—avoid drama, keep things pleasant, and not stir the pot. That all changed the morning Karen knocked on my door.

“Lena, hey! I’m so sorry to bother you this early,” Karen greeted me with her trademark overly sweet smile. I was still in my pajamas, nursing a cup of coffee, trying to wake up. My eight-year-old daughter, Sophie, was upstairs getting ready for school. The last thing I expected was a surprise visit from the neighbor.