But two days later, I woke to the rumble of a truck engine. I peered through my curtains and nearly dropped my coffee. There, right in the middle of my perfect lawn, sat their oversized truck, tires pressing deep into the soft green grass George and I had nurtured for decades.

At first, I thought maybe it was a mistake. Maybe their driveway was blocked, or maybe they just needed a quick place to park while unloading. So I waited. An hour passed. Then two. By mid-afternoon, the truck was still there, leaving ugly grooves in the soil where the tires had sunk.

I marched across the street, cane tapping against the pavement, and knocked on their door. Kayla answered, chewing gum loudly, her phone in her hand.

“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I just wanted to let you know that your truck is parked on my lawn. Could you please move it? I’ve spent a lot of time keeping it nice, and the grass is fragile.”