I’m Melanie, 42, newly single, and finally living in the fixer-upper I bought after a messy breakup. The house still needs work, but the garage? That’s mine—my space, my tools, my peace.
Then came Kyle, the smug guy renting next door. First week, he asked to borrow my driveway. I said no. Politely. The next day, he parked there anyway—and kept doing it. If I wasn’t guarding the space, it was his. Missed deliveries, blocked garage, total disrespect.
I warned him. He smirked.
Then I went out of town for two days. Came back to find his car parked diagonally across my entire driveway with a sign: “DO NOT MOVE—ENGINE TROUBLE.”
So I activated Plan B: called in a favor from a tow truck guy I once helped. An hour later, Kyle’s car was gone—towed to a storage yard 45 minutes away. Not illegal. Just inconvenient.
But Kyle wasn’t done. He called a tow on my car, claiming it blocked a public path. It didn’t. The second tow guy checked, apologized, and left. Kyle? Fuming.
That same day, a woman from the property management company knocked. Turned out Kyle had multiple complaints. One neighbor caught his antics on a doorbell cam. She said, “I’m recommending his lease be terminated.”
Two days later, Kyle moved out—no truck, just him and some gym clothes in an Uber.
But here’s the twist.
A week later, an elderly woman showed up—Kyle’s grandmother. She used to own the houses. She thanked me for handling things with grace… and gave me a deed map proving the driveway rights were always mine.
Since then, things shifted. Neighbors introduced themselves. We started a group chat. I built out my garage. One day, a new neighbor walked by and asked if I’d teach her about tools.
“Of course,” I said. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
Kyle thought he could do whatever he wanted.
But this is my home now.
And I don’t move for people who never belonged here.
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