There’s something deeply personal about a well-kept lawn. After my divorce, I poured my heart into mine—planting roses from my grandmother’s cuttings, lining the walkway with solar lights, and mowing every Saturday like it was a sacred ritual. It was my therapy, my fresh start.
Then Sabrina moved in.
From the moment her Lexus first rolled across my flowerbed, I knew this wasn’t just about shortcuts—it was about respect. Or rather, her lack of it. She’d wave it off with a tight-lipped smile, claiming she was “in a rush,” while her tires left scars on my carefully tended grass.
I tried being polite. I placed decorative rocks along the edge. She plowed through them.
So, I got creative.
Chicken wire buried just beneath the surface gave her tires a surprise they wouldn’t forget. The satisfying crunch of her SUV’s deflating tire was music to my ears. When she stormed out, mascara smudged and fury in her eyes, I simply sipped my tea and said, “I thought your tires were tougher than my roses.”
But Sabrina wasn’t done. A threatening letter from her lawyer arrived, accusing me of “sabotage.” That’s when I fought back with paperwork—land surveys, photo evidence, and a neatly organized folder sent straight to her attorney. The case vanished.
Still, she kept driving over my lawn.
So, I installed a motion-activated sprinkler. The next morning, her Lexus was met with a geyser of water, drenching her and her “spirited” attitude. She never cut through my yard again.
Weeks later, her husband showed up with a peace offering—a potted lavender plant. “You taught her a lesson I couldn’t,” he admitted.
My lawn flourished. My boundaries stood firm. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was finally home.
