My Neighbor Constantly Borrowed My Appliances — Until She Returned My Late Mother's Mixer Broken, Filthy, and Blamed Me for It

Renata opened the door holding a mug of coffee.

"Oh. Yeah." No apology. No concern. Nothing.

"The mixer's not working."

She rolled her eyes at me like I was the one being unreasonable. "Honestly, you should just buy a new one. That thing's ancient."

I stared at her. "What happened to it?"

"It died halfway through the frosting."

"What do you mean, died?"

"It started making this awful noise and then just stopped turning."

"Did you shut it off when it started making the noise?"

She took another sip of her coffee, unbothered. "I had eleven people sitting in my dining room waiting on cake."

"That's not what I asked, Renata."

She shrugged. "So. Thanks for ruining my night, I guess."

For a second, I genuinely couldn't find words.

She had borrowed my mother's mixer. Broken it. Returned it caked in dried batter. Left it outside like garbage on the curb. And somehow, in her head, I was the one who owed her an apology.

"It worked perfectly when you took it," I said.

"It's more than thirty years old."

"Thirty-six."

"Exactly." She said it like I'd just proven her point. "It was going to die eventually."

"Did you overload it?"

"No."

"Did you keep running it after it started struggling?"

Something in her face shifted. Just barely. But enough.

"I was trying to finish what I was making."

"So, yes."

"It means I didn't expect a thirty-year-old mixer to fall apart on me over one cake."

That was the moment it finally landed. She wasn't embarrassed. She wasn't sorry. As far as Renata was concerned, she hadn't done a single thing wrong.

I went home. Priya was waiting at the kitchen table.

"What'd she say?"

"That I should buy a new mixer."

Priya frowned. "But she's the one who broke it."

"I know."

"So is she buying you one?"

"No."

"Why not?"