I lived peacefully in my neighborhood, making verbal agreements with my neighbors when changes were needed. But I never expected things to spiral when new neighbors moved in. They left me dealing with a fiery woman who got a swift lesson from karma!
Living in my cozy house on Maple Street always felt like a haven. My backyard was my retreat, a place to unwind after a long day. Soon after settling in, I decided to build a fence along the back for some much-needed privacy.
To save on the cost of a surveyor, I discussed it with my neighbors at the time, Grant and Candice. They were warm and laid-back, and we agreed on a spot for the fence. It wasn’t exactly on the property line, but it was close enough for everyone.
We shook hands, and I got to work. That fence was my pride and joy. I covered all the materials and spent weekends building it.
Grant and Candice were thrilled since they didn’t have to pitch in a dime. It was a win-win. But about a year ago, my kind neighbors sold their house.
Enter Patrice, a flashy new neighbor from the city. Before they left, Grant mentioned that Patrice was a realtor who’d flipped eight houses in twelve years! She stood out from us locals, always in crisp blouses, skirts, and heels, with a sharp, judgmental glance.
She bragged about loving her new home and planning to stay forever. But six months after she moved in, I spotted a man with a clipboard wandering around the neighborhood and my backyard. He looked like a land surveyor, measuring and planting little flags in the ground.
The next day, Patrice knocked on my door, changing everything. She stood there with a stack of papers and a determined glare. “Hi, I’m Patrice.
Got a minute?” she said, handing me her business card. “Sure, what’s this about?” I replied, eyeing the papers curiously. “I had a survey done, and your fence is nine inches onto my property,” she said, waving the documents.
“You need to move it or pay me for the land it’s on.”
I was stunned. “I built that fence based on an agreement with Grant and Candice,” I explained. “We didn’t get a survey, but we all agreed on the spot.”
Patrice shook her head, unimpressed.
“That might fly out here, but where I’m from, we stick to the rules,” she snapped. “Move the fence or pay up.”
“Plus, that thing’s an eyesore—old and ugly. If you don’t move it, I’ll take action, and you’ll regret it.”
Her attitude floored me.
I tried explaining the handshake deal with Grant and Candice, but she wouldn’t budge. She even threatened to sue, leaving me no choice. The next day, I took down the fence to avoid trouble, since I had no proof of the deal.
My heart ached as I unscrewed the panels, stacked them by the garage, and yanked up the posts. It was a bitter task, and the work was exhausting, but I wanted no legal drama. What happened next was beyond anything I could’ve imagined.
A week later, Patrice was back at my door, tears streaming down her face. “What did you do?!” she cried, her voice shaking. Confused, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Please, put the fence back.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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