Divorce left me craving control over something—anything. So, I bought a house with a yard and turned it into my personal Eden. Every rose, every blade of grass was nurtured with the care I’d once poured into a marriage that fell apart.
Then came Sabrina.
Her Lexus became the bane of my existence, carving ruts through my flowerbeds like she owned the place. When I asked her to stop, she waved me off like I was complaining about the weather.
I tried diplomacy. Pretty rocks with “Please Keep Off” signs. She plowed through them.
That’s when I declared war.
Phase One: Chicken wire buried just under the grass. The look on her face when her tire blew was priceless.
Phase Two: When her lawyer sent a threatening letter, I countered with a land survey proving she’d been trespassing—along with a photo album of her crimes. Case closed.
Phase Three: The pièce de résistance—a motion-activated sprinkler with the force of a firehose. Watching her mascara melt as she scrambled out of her soaked Lexus? Chef’s kiss.
Her husband eventually came bearing a peace plant. “She’s… spirited,” he said weakly.
I accepted it graciously. After all, I’d already won.
This wasn’t petty revenge. It was a reclaiming—of my space, my pride, and the right to say, “This far, no further.”
