What You Don’t Hear: A Letter to the Neighbor Who Left a Note

Because childhood isn’t always quiet—and neither is growth

Dear Anonymous Neighbor,

You don’t know me. At least, not really.

You haven’t stopped by to introduce yourself or said hello when we’re outside. You left a letter instead—a letter about noise, trash bins, and the “reflection of our parenting.” You didn’t sign your name, but your words carried weight. And I’ve carried that weight every time I open the door or hear my children laugh too loudly outside.

But since you took the time to write, let me write back—not to accuse, but to share. Not to defend, but to invite you to understand what you haven’t seen.

You don’t see the learning taking place inside our home. The frequent breaks we take for physical and emotional regulation—because our school day doesn’t follow a bell, it follows our bodies and our hearts.

Since the elementary school is behind our house, you worry my 3 kids interrupt the hundreds there too much. You don’t hear the schoolchildren who often yell over the fence for my kids to come out and yell at each other across the fence—right in the middle of our lessons. Or yell and wave up at us in our second story window during our piano lessons, asking if we can hear them. The noise from the school regularly interrupts our learning, but we don’t mind. We expect kids to be loud. Because that’s what kids do.

You don’t hear that sometimes the noise you think is ours is actually from the public school just behind us. My husband works mostly from home and has often thought our kids were outside when they should be learning—only to realize it’s the school kids, whose voices carry through the fence.

You didn’t know that the week you probably heard the most screaming, the week you specifically mentioned, was the week my husband had a surgery (with complications), our 9 year old sprained her ankle, and just one day after my husband had the surgery—our four-year-old fell off the trampoline and lost consciousness. We rushed him to the ER. It was terrifying. We’ve been holding that moment with shaky hands and quiet prayers ever since.

You don’t know that one of our children is autistic—and sometimes, their response to a situation doesn’t always match what’s happened. A small frustration might result in a big reaction. A scream that feels disproportionate. That’s part of the journey we’re on. And we’re working on it every single day—with love, with patience, and with hope.

You don’t see the backstory—that these children came from 800 wide-open farm acres in Alabama, where they could roam and breathe and yell without bothering anyone. And now, they’re learning to live in a cookie-cutter neighborhood with a tiny cement backyard and houses pressed together like Tetris puzzle pieces. Their world has shrunk. And they’re doing the best they can to stretch out in the space they have.

You don’t know that we’ve left anonymous Christmas gifts on neighbors’ porches each year, hoping to spread light and kindness in a world that’s often harsh and lonely.

You don’t know that the trash bins you mentioned are placed right next to a neighbor’s who regularly leaves theirs out longer than we ever have. And the couple of times ours sat out for a day or two? We were sick with COVID and the other time with walking pneumonia, trying to function and care for our kids.

Sometimes, our four-year-old chases the neighborhood bunny through a nearby yard or two. You might call that “trespassing,” but to him, it’s magic. It’s wonder. He sees soft fur bounding through green grass and forgets, for a moment, the boundaries grownups have drawn. We remind him—gently and often—not to run through yards. He’s learning. But he’s four. And it’s a bunny. And in his world, that’s a chase worth taking.

Just like it’s hard to resist riding down the neighbor’s driveway with the fun hill—even though he knows he’s not supposed to. Most days, he remembers. Sometimes, he gives in. And we course-correct, again, with love and patience.

I don’t expect you to love the sound of children. But I do hope you’ll pause the next time you hear laughter or frustration or even a cry—and consider that what you’re hearing might not be misbehavior. It might be growth. It might be joy. It might be a family trying its best.

We are not just noise. We are a home. A homeschool. A family full of learning and love and loud, real-life moments.

There are no laws or HOA rules against children playing loudly in their own yard or public spaces during daylight hours. And yet, your words made me feel like we had broken something sacred. We’ve been here for two years, while we try to figure out if we want to buy here or move out of state. You implied that our presence here should be temporary, as if renting somehow made us less. That our parenting was flawed because our kids live loudly. But the truth is, we are doing what any family would do—learning, living, laughing, growing.

We are not perfect, but we are present. And we’re raising kind, curious, spirited children who are learning about boundaries, kindness, emotional regulation, and yes—empathy. Maybe they’re learning that last one faster than the adults around them.

So this is not a rebuttal. This is an invitation: to empathy. To understanding. To seeing a fuller picture.

And maybe, to starting a conversation. One we wish you would have tried first.

Your neighbors (but hopefully not for much longer),

Dr & Mrs Anderson