At 7:13 the next morning, Andy sent me a photograph of my house.
Not the front door. My bedroom window.
My stomach dropped.
Beneath the photo, he wrote, “Blue curtains look nice in daylight.”
I had never invited him inside, and from the street, that window was mostly hidden behind a tall hedge. I immediately called my brother and asked exactly how well he knew Andy.
The answer was not comforting.
They had played pickleball together for only a few months. Andy was friendly, but private. My brother had never visited his home, met his relatives, or even known where he worked beyond the vague name of a company.
Then another message appeared.
“Relax. I just wanted to prove I made sure you got home safely.”
I locked every door and checked outside. That was when I noticed muddy footprints beneath the bedroom window.
Police later found that Andy had parked around the corner after dropping me off, returned on foot, and stood outside my house for nearly an hour. When questioned, he insisted it was romantic and claimed women appreciated men who were “protective.”
I did not.
My brother apologised repeatedly for arranging the date without knowing him better. The flowers, manners, and careful listening had made Andy seem safe, but politeness is not the same as respect.
He had asked about my boundaries all evening—then ignored them the moment the date ended.
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