I thought I had a steady life in a quiet suburb until someone started slashing my tires every Friday like clockwork. What I uncovered next shattered everything I thought I knew about my marriage, my students, and my own home. I’m Irene.
I’m 40, married to Paul, and for the longest time, I thought life had finally leveled out.
After years of apartment hopping, career switches, and family drama, we’d landed in a quiet cul-de-sac in a small Michigan suburb. The kind of neighborhood where people wave as they mow their lawns, and kids leave their bikes in the driveway without worry.
Paul and I shared one car, a silver Toyota we bought after our old Saturn finally died, and I worked as a high school English teacher. I genuinely loved it.
I know people roll their eyes when teachers say that, but I meant it.
I loved the books, the kids, and the smell of dry-erase markers. My classroom was my little world. I didn’t think anything could shake that.
Until the tires started getting slashed.
It began on a random Friday in late spring. I came out early to head to school, coffee in hand, bag on my shoulder, and stopped short.
“Paul,” I called through the front door. “Did you take the car out last night?”
“Nope,” he yelled back.
“Why?”
“One of the tires is flat.”
He came outside, barefoot and squinting against the morning sun.
“Maybe you hit a nail or something?” he guessed. That sounded reasonable enough, so we got it fixed and didn’t think much more about it. But then came the next Friday.
This time, two tires, both on the same side.
And the Friday after that, all four were slashed. That third morning, I just stood in the driveway staring at the shredded rubber, my pulse thudding in my ears.
This wasn’t random. It couldn’t be.
And when I glanced over at the lawn, my stomach dropped.
Deep tire tracks cut across the grass where someone had clearly driven up and spun out, leaving the yard ripped to shreds. The sight of my ruined lawn made the whole scene feel personal, like whoever did this wanted me to notice the destruction every time I stepped outside. “Someone’s doing this on purpose,” I whispered.
Paul looked at me, confused.
“You think someone’s targeting us?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “But they’re doing a damn good job.”
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