My Neighbor Drove over My Lawn Every Day as a Shortcut to Her Yard
After my divorce, I didn’t just crave a new chapter—I needed one. That’s how I ended up in a quiet cul-de-sac in a brand-new state, standing on the porch of a little house with a white swing and a yard that belonged entirely to me.
I was 30, freshly single, and desperate for calm.
Then came Sabrina.
She lived in the corner house at the end of the loop. Her husband—Seth, though I wouldn’t learn his name for a while—was quiet, always in the background. I never saw him behind the wheel. Only her. Always her.
The first time I noticed tire tracks through my yard, I chalked it up to a delivery driver misjudging a turn. But then it happened again. And again.
One early morning, I caught her red-handed—her SUV slicing through my flowerbed like it was a shortcut on a racetrack. I stepped out and flagged her down. “Oh, sweetheart, flowers grow back. I’m just running late sometimes,” she chirped, smiling as she drove off like nothing happened.
I stood on my porch, heart pounding in that too-familiar rhythm of frustration. I wasn’t just irritated—I was unraveling.
The next morning, two planters were knocked over like toys. A rose snapped clean in half. That’s when I realized: This wasn’t about landscaping. This was about me. And I’d been invisible long enough.
So I got strategic.
I went to the local farm supply store—the kind that smells like sawdust and sunshine—and bought three rolls of chicken wire. Eco-friendly. Unassuming. But just beneath soft soil? It bites back.
I worked that lawn like someone who’s been dismissed one too many times. Two days later, I was sipping tea on the porch when I heard it: Crunch. Her SUV jerked to a halt, one tire gasping its last breath.
Sabrina flew out of the car like she was storming a stage—stilettos stabbing through my flowers, cursing as she examined the damage.
But I wasn’t done. The next morning, a legal letter flapped on my front door like a threat typed in Times New Roman. Her lawyer claimed I had “sabotaged shared property” and “posed a safety hazard.”
Shared property? My yard?
I called the county before my coffee cooled. Booked a survey that day. Within 48 hours, my lawn was a battlefield of neon flags and wooden stakes. Turns out, her property didn’t even touch mine. So I gathered receipts. Printed the survey. Filed the report. Took photos. Tucked everything into a crisp folder and mailed it to her lawyer—certified, tracked, with a simple note:
“Respect is mutual.”
Three days later, the claim was dropped. No apology. No explanation. But also, no change.
If chicken wire didn’t work, and paperwork didn’t faze her, it was time for something with a little more… bite.
I found it online: a motion-activated sprinkler system meant to deter deer—but strong enough to knock someone’s socks off. Literally.
I installed it in the exact spot she always veered across. Buried low beneath fresh mulch and flowers. One test spray, and it hit me so hard I lost a flip-flop.
Right on cue, her white Lexus rolled in—cruising onto my lawn, confident and clueless. The sprinkler roared to life.
First, the front tire. Then the open window. Then a glorious, soaking spin that drenched the entire SUV. She shrieked. Slammed the brakes. Leapt from the car—soaked head to toe, makeup streaking like melted wax.
She never touched my lawn again.
A week later, someone knocked. I opened the door to find a man in his fifties, holding a small lavender plant like a peace offering.
“I’m Seth,” he said softly. “Sabrina’s husband.” He looked like a man who’d been apologizing for years.
Weeks passed. My lawn began to bloom again. The chicken wire? Gone. The sprinkler? Still there—not out of spite, but as a quiet reminder.
Some things broke me. And some things—like a thriving flowerbed or a perfectly timed spray of water—helped put me back together.
You’ve just read, My Neighbor Drove Over My Lawn Every Day. Why not read Manager Had To Hire A New Employee.