I ran outside barefoot, heart racing, expecting disaster. Instead, Mr. Streeter stood beside his car, shouting—its front tire flat, air hissing. Scattered across the lawn lay the remains of Nick’s latest snowman: carrot nose broken, stick arms buried in tire tracks, snow churned into slush.
Nick stood calmly a few steps behind me. “Nick, what did you do?” I asked.
“I made sure he wouldn’t drive over it again,” he said.
Mr. Streeter, red-faced, demanded, “Do you know what this will cost me?”
Nick pointed simply: “I put rocks in the bottom snowball. Dad always said cars aren’t supposed to drive on lawns.”
The street went silent. Mr. Streeter looked at my eight-year-old, the ruined snowman, and the yard he’d repeatedly cut across. Slowly, his anger softened.
“You hid rocks?” he muttered. Nick nodded. “I told you before. That’s our yard.”
I knelt beside him. “Sweetheart, we don’t fix problems by damaging property.”
“I know,” Nick said, “but talking didn’t work.”
Mr. Streeter sighed, admitting he shouldn’t have driven across the lawn. He promised to pay for the tire and never cross our yard again.
A week later, he even brought bright orange cones and reflective tape for the snowmen. From then on, Nick’s creations stood safe all winter—and I learned that respect begins where someone else’s space does.