Ivy was our next-door neighbour in the new-build neighbourhood we’d moved to. There were still houses standing empty, so those of us who were there got to know each other pretty well.

Our kids played together, we had braais over the weekend, we shared the Peterson’s pool in summer, before we got our own.

Ivy was a chatty woman. She seemed very nice at first, if not a little needy in the way she always needed something from us. Flour, sugar, a captive audience to listen to her stories.

She and her husband were much older. They had moved from Joburg to downscale after their kids had left the country. They liked the idea of being around new families. Ivy thought it would keep them young at heart.

Her husband was still working, which meant that Ivy was alone most days. She did the rounds at people’s houses, popping in for tea uninvited and bringing cookies, and offering to help with the kids.

It was nice at first. My youngest was five, and although he was at crèche then, there was still a lot of running around when everyone was back from school. This was especially difficult while I was trying to do my work.

When Ivy started coming round to our house every other week or so, it worked. She’d get involved in making lunch and helping with the homework. She’d been a mother, so she knew what to do.

But then her visits became every few days, and then every other day, until she was popping in most days, sharing her opinions about the kids’ schooling and what they were wearing, and getting nosy about private information.

It started getting a bit much. A few times, when her husband went to play golf and stayed out with the boys, she invited herself to dinner.

I didn’t want to be rude, and my husband didn’t want to upset me by forcing me to confront her. I didn’t know what to say to discourage her from inserting herself into our life to the point that I was starting to feel overwhelmed.

I felt sorry for her. It was clear she was lonely. Besides, I’d been taught to be good to my neighbours, and help where I could. I thought that maybe I was helping Ivy by allowing her to help us.

But my tolerance was wearing thin. My friends in the neighbourhood laughed at me. I was a pushover and Ivy was walking all over me. Worse, she started saying things to me that were borderline insulting. And yet I still hid behind good manners because I was scared of conflict.

I set up a game plan to confront Ivy. I didn’t want to be cruel but I did want her to know what was acceptable, that things had changed and that I needed better boundaries between us, and between her and my family. I wouldn’t tolerate how she was starting to talk to me or about my children.

The conversation that day was one of the most difficult of my life. But Ivy listened. She acknowledged that her behaviour was overstepping. She cried a lot. She was lonely. My allowing her to act out on me and my family had just scabbed over that wound, but it was still there.

Shortly after, Ivy started therapy. I’m not sure how it went. The last I heard, she and her husband had followed their kids to Australia.

In a way, I have a lot to thank Ivy for. She put me in the pickle I needed to get into to fully appreciate the value of boundaries. I taught my kids, and now they’re teaching theirs.

Ivy was a bitter medicine, but one that changed my life with the power of no. I hope that wherever Ivy is today, she’s happy.