Sara, my neighbor, and I were sitting in our yard, chatting, and frowning at the wooden house across the street.

Nobody in the neighborhood had met these two young men there yet. The two men had long hair and beards and dressed strangely. They kept to themselves. When they came outside, they never made eye contact with anyone. “They sure don’t fit into the neighborhood,” Sara said, the corners of her mouth turning down as she stared at that house.

Sara said, “What about our street parties? We’ve always included everyone. Should we invite them?” I sighed, “Try being nice, Sara.” Suddenly, Sara sat up straight and her eyes grew wide with curiosity when a government car pulled up before Mrs Swain’s house next door. We hurried over. Mrs Swain was recovering from cancer and lived alone. Sara and I tried to keep an eye on her.

The man from the car put a piece of paper on Mrs Swain’s door and hurriedly left. Mrs Swain looked old, thin, and very tired when she opened the door. We three looked at the paper. It read: “Someone complained your grass’ length is against city rules. Please cut it in five days, or you’ll be fined.”

It was a shame that nobody had cut her grass for her. However, Sara and I lived alone, and we were both pregnant. What was worse, we were on a tight budget, and the other families here were on vacation.

Sara and I comforted Mrs Swain, telling her we’d figure out a way. Mrs Swain blinked in confusion, “Who would complain? Everyone knows that my old lawn mower is broken. And I’ve been sick too.” “It may be those two guys across the street,” Sara whispered, angrily staring at that wooden house.

Just then, a voice that seemed too gentle to be coming from the strange young man behind me said, “What is going on? Is she alright?” He nodded toward Mrs Swain. Sara looked at him coldly and said, “Some guys reported her because her grass is too high.” Her eyes ran over him disapprovingly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Our three kids were all under age five. We’d recently moved to the suburbs, and I’d stopped working to be a stay-at-home mom. Most of our friends lived outside our immediate community and didn’t have children. This all added up to a nonexistent social life for my husband and me.

I needed to fix this, so I became a room parent in my son’s kindergarten class, partly to spend time with him, but also to make more friends within the school community. I also signed my son up for weekend soccer. While those activities gave me the opportunity to socialize with other moms, it was challenging to cultivate friendships. I only saw my fellow room parents a few times a -year, usually during class parties. On the soccer sidelines, I found it impossible to watch the game, keep track of my young children, and maintain conversations with other parents at the same time.

I desired deeper interactions with the smart, interesting moms I saw around school. But we all led busy lives. How could I make this happen?

“You should throw a party,” suggested a friend who happened to be a professional event planner. “I can’t do that. I don’t really know these women,” I replied quickly. I hardly even had my closest friends over to my house. The thought of hosting an adult party terrified me.

“Just invite a few people that you’ve talked to and ask them to bring along a friend. You’ll meet even more people that way. It will be fun,” my event-planner friend said. I ran this idea by my husband, and I was certain he’d agree it wouldn’t work. “Great idea,” he said. “I’ll stay upstairs with the kids, and the party can take place on the main floor.”

I picked a date and set up an electronic invitation, making a guest list of moms from my son’s soccer team, my fellow room moms, and a few other moms I’d started saying “hi” to at school pick-up. But I didn’t hit Send. I started to talk myself out of it. There were so many reasons this wouldn’t work.

With four mess makers in my household, I imagined many “what ifs”.

But you know what? Everyone showed up.

When I was twelve, my parents let me babysit for Mr. and Mrs. Joseph who lived down the street with their two little preschool girls. Most of my babysitting occurred during daylight hours while Mrs. Joseph went shopping. One day she asked if I could stay with her daughters in the evening, promising she and her husband would be home by ten p. m. After pleaded with (恳求) them, desperate to earn fifty cents an hour for six hours—three whole dollars!—my parents agreed.

At four o'clock, I knocked on the Josephs' front door, greeted the kids, and received detailed instructions from their mother. A few minutes later, the girls and I were alone. We played hide-and-seek, did some finger painting together, and I fixed them scrambled eggs (炒鸡蛋) and toast soldiers for dinner. Then, at about eight p, m., I gathered the two kids beside me on the sofa and began to read them a story.

I heard a soft click, as if the front door had been opened, and I stopped. “Go on,” said Melanie, the four-year-old. “Keep reading.” “Wait.” I put my finger to my lips, “I thought I heard someone come in.” I heard the click again, and the lamp beside me switched on. All three of us jumped. Then the drapes (帘子) closed across the big window.

I screamed, put a little girl under each of my arms, and ran upstairs to the bathroom. As I locked the door behind us, I heard music begin to play from a radio somewhere downstairs. The girls clutched (紧紧抱住) each other in fear as I calmed them down, saying, “There's a bad man in the house. You have to be perfectly quiet. ”

The three of us sat on the floor, ears pressed to the wooden door ... listening. Even two-year-old Tricia was very quiet. For two hours we listened to the music playing, but we never heard another sound. No footsteps, no creaking (嘎吱作响的) doors, or breaking of china. Definitely no one walking up the stairs.

Then the front door opened with a bang and we all jumped.