After my divorce, my little white house—and its lawn—became my sanctuary. I poured my heart into it, planting roses and finding peace in
the routine. Then came Sabrina, my stiletto-wearing neighbor, who treated my yard like her personal shortcut, tearing through it without a care.
Polite requests didn’t work. Rocks were moved. But I’d been ignored enough in my life. So I fought back—chicken wire beneath the grass,
legal proof of trespassing, and finally, a motion-activated sprinkler system that drenched her and her Lexus in one perfect, pride-shattering moment.
She never crossed my lawn again. And I? I took back more than just my grass—I reclaimed my voice.
