Every week, my neighbor knocked over my trash bins and scattered garbage across my lawn. I talked to him. He denied it.
I confronted him. He smirked. As a single mom barely holding it together, I didn’t have time for his games.
So I stopped talking and started planning. The guy never saw it coming.
I’m 33 years old, and I’m raising two kids alone in a house that’s falling apart faster than I can fix it.
My ex left three weeks after our youngest was born. No explanation.
No child support. No apology.
We live in the house my grandmother left me. It’s got peeling paint, a narrow driveway, and a furnace that sounds like it’s dying every time it kicks on.
But it’s ours.
And I’m doing everything I can to keep it that way.
Winter makes everything 10 times harder.
In our town, when the snow piles up, you have to move your trash bins closer to the road so the trucks can reach them. Everyone does it.
Except for my neighbor, Mike.
Mike is in his early 50s, drives a black SUV that’s way too big for our street, and has this way of looking at you like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing. He’s lived next door since before I was born, and he’s never been friendly.
The problems started about a month into winter.
I woke up one Tuesday morning to find both my trash bins knocked over, garbage scattered across the entire front lawn.
Diapers lay frozen in the snow. Food containers were littered everywhere. Coffee grounds were mixed with slush.
My three-year-old pressed her face against the window and asked, “Mommy, why is our yard so messy?”
I told her it was an accident and spent 20 minutes in the freezing cold picking up trash with numb fingers before I had to get my kids ready for daycare.
The second time it happened, I was annoyed.
The third time, I was furious.
That’s when I noticed the tire tracks.
They cut straight across the edge of my lawn, right through where the bins had been sitting. Same path. Same angle.
Every single time.
And they matched the tread on Mike’s SUV perfectly.
I decided to talk to him like an adult.
I walked over one Saturday afternoon when I saw him getting his mail. My kids were napping, and I had maybe five minutes before one of them woke up screaming.
“Hey, Mike,” I said, trying to keep my voice friendly. “I wanted to ask you about something.”
He turned around, his expression already bored.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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