After my divorce, I needed something to call my own. I found it in a small house with a patch of green that became my refuge. Every weekend, I’d tend to my grandmother’s roses with care, mow the grass with my trusty old mower, and savor the quiet moments with a glass of sweet tea. It was my little slice of peace—until Sabrina moved in next door.
She was all flashy cars and designer shoes, always in a hurry. At first, I thought the tire marks on my lawn were just mistakes. But then I saw her—deliberately cutting across my yard as if it were her personal shortcut. When I politely asked her to stop, she just smirked and said, “Relax, your grass will survive.”
But it wasn’t just grass to me. It was the one thing I’d poured my heart into since my life had fallen apart. So I fought back. Chicken wire hidden under the soil left her with a flat tire, and when she threatened legal action, I handed her lawyer a stack of evidence proving she had no right to drive through my property.
Still, she didn’t stop. So I installed a motion-activated sprinkler. The next time her Lexus rolled onto my lawn, she got drenched—and I got the last laugh.
A few days later, her husband came by with a peace offering—a potted lavender plant. The yard recovered, and so did I. This wasn’t just about protecting my flowers. It was about standing up for myself, about refusing to let someone bulldoze over me just because they couldn’t be bothered to take the long way home.
Healing doesn’t always come softly. Sometimes, it comes with a splash—and that’s okay.
