When my 10-year-old son, Jake, came home with a mysterious wooden box from our creepy neighbor, Mr. Carson, I felt uneasy. Jake was thrilled, calling it a “treasure,” but when he opened it, a swarm of wriggling insects burst out, quickly invading our home.

At first, I thought it was a twisted prank. But as the bugs multiplied and began biting Jake, I realized this was something darker. When I confronted Mr. Carson, he confessed—this was revenge. He believed our home sat on land stolen from his family.

We fled to my sister’s house, devastated but safe. Then came word: Mr. Carson’s home was overrun too. Karma, I suppose.

Weeks later, Jake and I settled into a small apartment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. We were finally safe, and stronger for what we’d endured. Our past haunted us, but it no longer defined us—we were ready to rebuild.