I Threw Away My Neighbor’s Jollof Rice Out of Jealousy—The Next Morning, Every Stray Dog on Our Street Was Dead

“Thanks, Mom! Thanks!” my kids shouted, their faces lit up with pure joy as they reached for the steaming plate of Jollof rice and chicken. Mrs. Thompson, our neighbor, stood at the door, her smile wide and proud.

I forced a smile, but inside, my stomach twisted. I watched as my kids dug in, their laughter echoing through the kitchen. I hated how much they loved her food—how much they loved her.

That night, after the kids went to bed, I stood over the trash can, the plate of untouched Jollof rice in my hands. The aroma was intoxicating, but my envy was stronger. I dumped it, chicken and all, into the garbage, slamming the lid shut.

—

The next morning, the street was eerily quiet. I stepped outside to get the paper and froze. There, scattered along the curb, were the bodies of every stray dog on our block.

My heart pounded. I looked around—neighbors were gathering, whispering, pointing. Mrs. Thompson was already outside, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

“What happened?” my husband, Mark, asked, coming up behind me.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, but my mind raced back to the rice, the trash, the dogs.

—

The night before, I’d tossed the rice into the outside bin. Our street was known for its strays—dozens of dogs would tear through the trash every night, looking for scraps.

I tried to shake the thought, but guilt gnawed at me. What if the rice was poisoned? What if Mrs. Thompson had meant to hurt my kids? Or worse—what if I had just killed every dog on the street out of spite?

—

The police came. Animal control. News vans. Our sleepy suburb in Ohio was suddenly the center of a small-town scandal.

Neighbors speculated. “Maybe someone put out rat poison,” said Mr. Lee from across the street. “Or maybe it was that new family down the block.”

But I knew the truth. Or at least, I thought I did.

—

That afternoon, Mrs. Thompson came over. She looked tired, her eyes red. “I just wanted to check on your kids. Did they eat the rice?”

I hesitated. “They… they didn’t.”

She looked relieved. “Thank God. I made it for the church potluck, but I had a weird feeling about the chicken. It smelled off, so I didn’t serve it. I didn’t want to waste it, so I thought maybe your kids would like it.”

My knees went weak. “You thought the chicken was bad?”

She nodded. “I should have thrown it out. I’m so sorry.”

—

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the moment I dumped the rice, the dogs tearing through the trash, the lifeless bodies on the curb.

Mark tried to comfort me. “You didn’t know. You were just being careful.”

But I knew it was more than that. I hadn’t thrown away the rice out of caution. I did it because I couldn’t stand the thought of my kids loving Mrs. Thompson more than me.

—

Days passed. The neighborhood slowly returned to normal, but I couldn’t shake the guilt. Every time I saw Mrs. Thompson, I felt a lump in my throat.

One evening, as I watched my kids play in the yard, Mrs. Thompson came over. She handed me a plate of cookies. “I hope we can move past this,” she said softly. “I know things have been tense.”

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I let jealousy get the best of me.”

She smiled gently. “We all make mistakes.”

—

The dogs never came back. The street felt emptier, quieter. But something in me had changed. I realized how easily envy can twist love into something ugly—how a single act, born from insecurity, can ripple out in ways you never expect.

Now, when my kids thank Mrs. Thompson for her food, I join them. I let myself be grateful, not jealous. I remember the dogs, the silence, and the lesson I learned the hard way.

Sometimes, the things we throw away come back to haunt us in ways we never imagined.

Based on a true story.