That’s how I ended up in a quiet cul-de-sac, in a new state, standing on the porch of a little house with a white swing and a yard all my own.
I was 30, newly single, and craving peace.
Then came Sabrina.
She lived at the end of the loop. Her husband, Seth—quiet and barely visible—seemed more shadow than partner.
I first noticed tire tracks in my yard and assumed it was a one-off. But it kept happening.
One early morning, I caught her—SUV tearing through my flowerbed. I stepped out and waved her down.
“Oh, sweetheart, flowers grow back. I’m just running late,” she said with a smile, then drove off.
I stood there, heart pounding. This wasn’t just about flowers. I was unraveling.
The next day, planters were knocked over, a rose snapped in half. I realized: this wasn’t carelessness. It was disrespect.
So I got strategic.
I bought chicken wire and buried it under the soil. Two days later, I heard a crunch—her tire caught and gave out.
She flew out of the SUV, furious. The next day, I found a legal letter taped to my door. Her lawyer claimed I’d “sabotaged shared property.”
Shared? I called the county. A survey confirmed it was all mine.
I mailed the lawyer a tidy folder: photos, receipts, survey—certified and tracked. Note included: “Respect is mutual.”
The claim was dropped. No apology. And she still didn’t stop.
So I upgraded: motion-activated sprinklers, hidden under mulch. One blast during her usual shortcut soaked her through the window. She never cut through again.
A week later, Seth knocked, lavender plant in hand. “I’m Seth,” he said quietly. He looked like a man who’d been apologizing for years.
The lawn healed. So did I.
The chicken wire? Gone. Sprinkler? Still there—less for revenge, more for remembrance.
Some things broke me. Others, like a blooming flowerbed or a well-timed spray, helped put me back together.