Echoes of the Moon: The Hot Mom’s Quiet Battle

We had a neighbor on the second floor of the apartment next to ours. Our balconies were side by side since both apartments were on the second floor. She was a white Caucasian woman in her early 40s, divorced, and lived with her “friends with benefits” boyfriend. Despite being in her 40s, she had a youthful appearance thanks to her petite figure. She was quite attractive, earning her the nickname “The Hot Mom” among us. She had a fourteen-year-old daughter who didn’t live with her due to losing custody to her ex-husband, primarily because of her struggles with alcoholism and heavy smoking.

I mainly saw her during our coincidental smoke breaks on the balconies or when I was out testing my solar panel and other doomsday gadgets on the porch. She often glanced curiously at my gadgets but rarely made eye contact. At first, I thought she was aloof or maybe even arrogant. However, as time went on, I learned that she was actually quite insecure and had very low self-esteem.

Despite being neighbors for about a year, we never exchanged more than a passing glance or a nod.

One night, I was out testing my latest gadget addition, an 8x Pentax binoculars, to see how well they performed in low-light conditions. I stood near the entrance of my apartment, gazing up at the moon. The view was tranquil and clear through the lenses. Lost in observation, I didn’t notice her approaching until she nearly bumped into me while trying to enter her own apartment next to mine. It was late, much later than her usual return time, likely from a bar or night out. She was startled by our unexpected encounter in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I quickly apologized as she recovered from the surprise.

She didn’t respond, simply hurrying into her apartment. I resumed my binocular testing, enjoying the moonlit sky. A few minutes later, she reappeared, apparently curious about what I was doing.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice mixed with curiosity and cautiousness.

“I’m testing my binoculars. Want to give them a try?” I offered, extending the binoculars towards her.

She hesitated briefly before accepting them and started looking through the lenses in the same direction I had been looking.

“Do you see the moon yet?” I asked.

“I think I do,” she replied nervously.

Seeing her struggle with the focus, I gently took the binoculars back to adjust them for her.

“My ex-husband is also into photography,” she said, her voice slightly slurred. “He has his own website with his portfolio. He’s into event shooting, specializing in wedding photography.”

As she spoke, I noticed her struggling to maintain her balance. It was clear she had indulged in quite a bit of alcohol that night; the scent was unmistakable on her breath.

“Why don’t we sit down and talk?” I suggested gently.

We found a spot on the curb and settled in. She opened up about the challenges in her life, sharing her vulnerabilities and the difficult times she was facing. When she finished, she looked at me with a mix of admiration and sincerity.

“You know, I see that you’re always busy with your own thing, self-reliant and content in your own company,” she said softly. “And those peculiar gadgets you tinker with on the porch, I can’t help but wonder about them. I really admire you, and… you’re quite handsome.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say. I was flattered and blushing.

The next thing I knew, she was leaning over me, trying to kiss me. I leaned back and resisted.

“I understand you don’t like me kissing you,” she said, clearly embarrassed.

“Well, you have a boyfriend who is sleeping upstairs, and here we are right under his bedroom window, you see?”

“It’s okay. I don’t care,” she said and leaned over me again and started kissing me.

As I detected the overwhelming scent of alcohol on her breath, I gently pushed her away. Just then, a car pulled into the parking lot—it was Molly, our neighbor from downstairs. Seeing Molly, she hurried back into her apartment to avoid facing her.

“What was she doing with you?” Molly inquired as she approached.

“She was going through a tough time and needed someone to talk to,” I explained calmly.

Of course, Molly didn’t believe me, but we didn’t want to make the situation awkward, so we changed the topic of our conversation and bid each other a good night.

From then on, The Hot Mom avoided me completely. She seemed too embarrassed to face me, and our encounters became rare. Three years later, during a visit to Betty, I received shocking news: The Hot Mom had passed away from alcohol poisoning.

I was stunned. It was like a punch to the gut. The woman who once tried to kiss me under the moonlight, who shared her vulnerabilities with me on a drunken night, was now gone. The Hot Mom, who carried the weight of her insecurities and struggles with a brave face, was suddenly no more. Her untimely death served as a poignant reminder that behind every facade, every nickname, and every passing judgment, lies a complex individual fighting unseen battles we may never fully understand. And sometimes, those battles end in the quietest, most heartbreaking ways.