After my divorce, my little white house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac became my sanctuary. The roses from my grandmother’s garden,

the neatly mowed lawn, and the quiet mornings gave me peace I hadn’t felt in years — until Sabrina moved in next door.

With her luxury SUV and dismissive smile, she started driving across my yard every morning, crushing flowers and leaving muddy tracks.

I asked her kindly to stop; she agreed — and did it again the next day. It wasn’t about convenience anymore. It was about control.

So, I gathered proof — photos, timestamps, even a land survey — and sent her a polite letter explaining she was trespassing.

Nothing changed. That’s when I got creative. I buried chicken wire just under the grass — invisible, harmless, but loud enough to rattle her tires.

The next morning, she slammed on the brakes mid-lawn. She threatened to call her lawyer. I called the city — with evidence.

Still, I had one more move. A motion-activated sprinkler system. The next time she tried, a sudden burst of water drenched her completely.

I sipped my coffee from the porch as she backed away, defeated. Since then, my roses have flourished — and so has my peace.