“Andy’s mom,” he whispered, tears forming in his eyes. “He said she heard from Mrs. Jenkins that I was disrespectful to teachers and that I shouted at her last week when she told me to be quiet.”I blinked in disbelief. Mrs. Jenkins — our next-door neighbor.

She was a woman in her late fifties who had moved into the house beside ours three years earlier. At first, I thought she was just the type who liked to be involved — she always offered “friendly advice” and seemed to know everyone’s business. But over time, it became clear she was the kind of neighbor who thrived on gossip.Still, accusing my ten-year-old son of being rude? That crossed a line.“Tommy,” I said softly, “did you ever shout at Mrs. Jenkins?”

He looked horrified. “No, Mom! I just said hi to her the other day when I was walking home from school. She didn’t answer, so I thought maybe she didn’t hear me.”I believed him. Tommy wasn’t perfect — no kid is — but he was kind, polite, and well-behaved. His teachers often praised his manners. The idea that he was “rude” or “ill-mannered” was absurd.That night, after he went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying his words in my head, anger building with every thought. It wasn’t just a childish rumor — it was affecting my son’s friendships, his confidence, his place in the neighborhood.