I bought a little house on a quiet cul-de-sac in a new state. The lawn became my sanctuary. I planted my grandmother’s roses, mowed religiously with a secondhand mower named Benny, and found comfort in sweet tea and Saturday routines.

Then Sabrina blew in like a rhinestoned hurricane—stilettos, Bluetooth, and a Lexus that couldn’t seem to stay off my grass.

At first, I thought the tire tracks through my yard were accidents. They weren’t. One morning, I caught her in the act. I asked her—nicely—to stop. She smiled and said, “Oh honey, your flowers will grow back.”

That yard was the only thing I’d nurtured since my world fell apart. Her disregard wasn’t just rude—it was personal.

I tried kindness. Then I tried chicken wire under the soil. It worked—a punctured tire sent her stomping across my flowerbed in fury. She lawyered up. I flagged my property line, documented everything, and sent her lawyer a folder full of proof. Case closed.

But she kept pushing—so I got creative. A motion-sensor sprinkler did what words couldn’t. Her Lexus spun, she got soaked, and I laughed like I hadn’t in months.

She never crossed my lawn again.

A week later, her husband showed up with a