Starting over after my divorce meant finding joy in the little things—like my new house and the small, well-kept lawn I tended with pride. I planted roses that reminded me of my grandmother, spent weekends perfecting every blade of grass, and found comfort in the routine. Then Sabrina arrived.
From day one, her luxury car left deep tracks across my yard. At first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she didn’t realize. But when I caught her red-handed and asked her to stop, she just laughed it off. “It’s just grass,” she said.
Except it wasn’t. That lawn was my therapy, my fresh start. So I fought back. I buried chicken wire under the soil, and the next time she tried her shortcut, her tire paid the price. She threatened to sue, but I had photos, property markers, and a mountain of evidence on my side.
When she still didn’t learn her lesson, I set up a motion-sensor sprinkler. The sight of her screeching to a stop, soaked from head to toe, was worth every penny.
A week later, her husband showed up with an apology and a lavender plant. My lawn healed, and I realized something important: Sometimes, standing your ground is the best kind of healing.
