My Neighbor Drove over My Lawn Every Day as a Shortcut to Her Yard…
After my divorce, I needed more than just a fresh start—I needed space, peace, and something that was entirely mine. That’s how I found myself in a small house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, with a white porch swing and a patch of lawn that I poured my heart into. That yard became my therapy. I planted roses from my late grandma’s garden, lined the walkway with flickering solar lights, and named my lawnmower Benny. Every blade of grass felt like a symbol of healing.
Then Sabrina moved in.
She arrived like a thunderstorm in designer heels—loud, flashy, and full of herself. Her Lexus roared through the neighborhood like it was hers. The first time I saw tire tracks across my lawn, I thought it was just a delivery van. But it kept happening. One morning, I caught her in the act—her SUV slicing through my flowerbed as if my hard work meant nothing. I ran outside in my pajamas and pleaded with her to stop. She rolled down her window, smirking, and said, “Honey, your flowers will grow back. I’m just in a rush sometimes.” Then she sped off, leaving crushed petals and fury behind her.
I tried reasoning with her. I even put down decorative rocks to mark the edge of my yard. The next day, two of them were knocked aside as if they were nothing more than toys. I realized it wasn’t just a matter of taking a shortcut—it was about respect. And I’d been stepped on enough in my life.
So, I stopped being polite.
First came the chicken wire. I bought rolls from a feed store and carefully buried them under the soil where her tires always seemed to hit. It was invisible to the eye but ruthless on rubber. A few days later, I sat on the porch, sipping tea, when I heard the satisfying crunch of her tire meeting wire. She screeched to a halt, threw open her car door, and shouted, “What did you do to my car?!” I calmly replied, “Oh no… was that the lawn again? Thought your tires were tougher than my roses.”
She wasn’t done. The next morning, I found a letter taped to my door. Her lawyer accused me of endangering shared property. I laughed, then called the county for a land survey. When the bright orange flags were planted, it was official—she’d been trespassing for weeks. I compiled every photo I’d taken of her stomping through my garden in stilettos, of her SUV mid-lawn, and included a copy of the survey in a neat little folder. I mailed it to her lawyer with a note: “Respect goes both ways.”
