When my husband left me, the house felt like a ghost of the life I thought I’d have. His things were gone within a week, but his presence lingered in his cologne, his coffee mug, his shoes by the door I hadn’t noticed he’d stopped wearing. For months, I moved like a sleepwalker through the house, uncertain what to do with the quiet.
Then one morning, as I stood on the porch staring at the patchy, half-dead grass in front of me, I thought, This is something I can fix. That spring, I made my lawn my project. I researched everything: soil types, fertilizers, watering schedules, and mowing patterns.
I wanted it to be lush and green, a small, living symbol of control in a world that had spun completely off course. Every morning before work, I’d water it, and every evening I’d pull weeds by hand. By early summer, it looked perfect.
Even the mail carrier commented on it. “Best lawn on the block, Ms. Brooks,” he said with a grin.
And for the first time in months, I smiled without forcing it. Then came Denise. She moved in next door in late June, freshly divorced like me, though unlike me, she wore her freedom like a trophy.
She drove a new SUV, blasted music while unloading boxes, and hosted what sounded like wine-fueled unpacking parties with her friends. I told myself I didn’t mind. Everyone copes differently.
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The problem started small, just a tire mark, faint and curved, across the edge of my lawn one morning. I frowned but said nothing. Maybe she’d misjudged the turn into her driveway.
But the next day, there was another mark. Then two. By the end of the week, she was driving over my lawn entirely, cutting diagonally from the street to her side yard instead of using her driveway like a normal person.
Each morning, I’d look out and see fresh tire tracks slicing through the green grass I’d spent months nurturing. At first, I told myself not to make it a big deal. “You’re overreacting,” I muttered while raking the damaged grass back into place.
“It’s just grass.”
But it wasn’t just grass. It was the one thing that made me feel capable again. And she was driving over it like it meant nothing.
That weekend, I decided to talk to her. I caught her as she was unloading groceries. “Hi, Denise,” I said, smiling as politely as I could.
“Hey, could I ask you a small favor? I’ve noticed your car’s been cutting across my lawn. I just put a lot of work into it, and it’s really delicate right now.
Would you mind using your driveway instead?”
She blinked, then gave me a slow, dismissive smile. “Oh, that? Yeah, sorry.
It’s just faster this way. The turn into my driveway is kind of tight.”
“I understand,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “but it’s damaging the grass.”
She shrugged. “It’s just grass, Linda.
It’ll grow back.”
And with that, she picked up her grocery bags and walked away. I stood there for a moment, stunned. I had to physically unclench my hands before going back inside.
The next morning, the tire tracks were back deeper this time. She’d done it again. That evening, I placed a small row of garden stakes along the edge of my lawn, marking the boundary clearly.
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