After my divorce, I wasn’t just searching for a new beginning—I craved one. That’s how I ended up in a quiet cul-de-sac, settling into a cozy white house with a porch swing and a yard that felt like my own little sanctuary. That lawn became my refuge. I planted roses from my grandmother’s garden, named my lawnmower Benny, and found peace in the simple rhythm of mowing and sipping sweet tea on warm afternoons.
It was my haven—until Sabrina showed up like a tornado in heels. Her luxury SUV began slicing through my lawn like it was her personal shortcut, flattening my flowerbeds and undoing weeks of healing with each pass. At first, I asked politely. Then I tried deterrents—rocks, signs. She just laughed and kept driving, making it clear she saw neither my yard nor me.
That’s when I realized it wasn’t about the grass. It was about standing my ground. So, I got strategic. I buried chicken wire just beneath the soil, turning her joyrides into bumpy, tire-shredding messes. She called her lawyer; I called a land surveyor. Turns out, she’d been trespassing the entire time. I documented everything—photos, reports—and mailed it all with a note: “Respect is a two-way street.”
Still, she didn’t stop. So I escalated.
I installed a hidden, motion-activated sprinkler system aimed right at her path. The next morning, I watched from behind the curtain as the system kicked on, soaking her car, her designer outfit, and her arrogance in one perfect blast. She stood there, dripping and speechless.
That was the last time Sabrina drove across my lawn.
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