My neighbor Sabrina drove over my lawn daily as a shortcut, ignoring my pleas to stop. Her SUV crushed my flowers, and her smirk dismissed my concerns. I tried marking the border with rocks, but she knocked them aside. Realizing this was about respect, I stopped being polite.
I buried chicken wire under the soil, and soon heard her tires crunch. She blamed me for her car trouble, but I stayed calm. When she sent a lawyer’s letter accusing me of endangering property, I got a land survey proving she was trespassing. I sent photos of her SUV on my lawn to her lawyer, and the threats stopped.
Still, Sabrina persisted. So, I installed a motion-activated sprinkler. The next time she drove over, it doused her and her Lexus. She stood drenched, shocked, and never crossed my lawn again.
Her husband later brought a lavender plant, admitting I’d taught her a lesson. The sidewalk was always there, I reminded him. My lawn healed, my roses bloomed, and the sprinkler stayed—a symbol of taking back my space and peace.
Some things, like flowerbeds, don’t just grow—they restore.
