Post-divorce life was about rebuilding, and my new home’s lawn became my sanctuary. I planted flowers, mowed with care, and found peace in the quiet rhythm of tending to something alive. Then Sabrina moved in next door—and suddenly, my yard was her personal driveway.
Tire tracks appeared daily. When I finally confronted her, she brushed me off like I was overreacting. But that lawn wasn’t just dirt and grass—it was the first thing I’d nurtured in years.
So I got creative. Chicken wire under the soil left her with a flat tire. When she lawyered up, I handed over proof that she’d been trespassing. But she still didn’t stop.
Enter the motion-activated sprinkler. The next time her car veered onto my property, she got an impromptu shower. I hadn’t laughed that hard in months.
Surprisingly, her husband later brought me a peace offering—a lavender plant. The grass grew back, and I realized something: Sometimes, healing isn’t about being nice. Sometimes, it’s about holding your ground—even if it takes a well-aimed spray of water to do it.
