Todd lowered his phone, gave me a once-over, and flashed a smile glancing at his house. “Todd! Just closed on this place for a steal. Gonna transform it into something actually worth looking at.”

I stared at the perfectly charming cottage he’d purchased. “It’s a beautiful home already.”

“If you’re into outdated everything,” he snorted. “Don’t worry, my renovations will boost your property value too. You’re welcome in advance.”

His dog, some designer breed that looked visibly anxious, yapped incessantly as Todd returned to his call without so much as a goodbye.

“Well,” I whispered to my garden as I retreated, “that’s going to be interesting!”

Fast forward a month, and “interesting” had become “insufferable.” The constant construction noise was bad enough, but Todd himself was worse. Every interaction felt like a competition I never signed up for.

I was pruning my beloved oak tree one afternoon when his shadow fell across my yard.

“That tree’s gotta go,” he announced, hands on his hips like he was posing for his social media profile — which, as I’d recently discovered, was called “Todd the Modern Man.”

I nearly fell off my ladder. “Excuse me?”

“Your tree. It’s blocking prime sunlight from hitting my new deck.” He gestured to the monstrous wooden platform he’d installed. “I need full sun exposure for my outdoor content.”

I climbed down, secateurs still in hand. “This oak has been here for 70 years. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Look, BETTY,” he said my name like it was quaint and outdated, “I’m trying to elevate this neighborhood. That deck cost me twelve grand. Your tree is literally shading my investment.”

“That’s generally what trees do, Todd. They provide shade.”

His jaw tightened. “I could have it declared a hazard.”

“It’s healthy as a horse and nowhere near your property line.”

“We’ll see about that.” He turned to leave but paused. “Oh, and you might want to train your dog not to bark at mine. Some of us work from home, you know.”

I watched him swagger away, stunned by the audacity. “I don’t even have a dog,” I called after him. “That’s your dog barking at squirrels all day!”

He waved without turning around.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered to my oak tree. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

Then came the subtle shift in my garden’s aroma. Not the usual earthy sweetness, but something… off.

My boots started sinking into what should have been firm soil. My tomatoes yellowed despite perfect care. The herbs wilted. And my grandmother’s roses, her pride and joy, the ones she’d tended for decades before passing them to me… began to die.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, kneeling beside them one morning, their once-vibrant petals now brown and drooping. “What’s happening to you, my poor babies?”

The smell became unmistakable. It wasn’t compost or fertilizer, but it was something rancid and utterly wrong.

I called a plumber that afternoon.

“I think there might be a sewage leak in my garden,” I explained when he arrived, a middle-aged guy named Mike with kind eyes and a tool belt that had seen better days.

He followed me through the wilting garden, frowning deeper with each step. “Oh yeah, something’s definitely leaking here.” He pulled out his equipment and began investigating.

An hour later, he called me over to a spot behind my shed.

“Found your problem!” he said, pointing to a green pipe partially hidden by mulch. “But here’s the weird thing… this pipe doesn’t connect to your house.”

I blinked. “What do you mean? Where does it connect to?”

Mike ran a scope camera over the pipe, both of us watching the screen as it traveled. The image showed corners, joints, and finally emerged at a familiar-looking deck foundation.

“That’s…” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Your neighbor’s house,” Mike confirmed grimly. “Someone redirected part of their gray water and sewage to drain into your garden. Pretty recent work too, judging by these fittings.”

My stomach lurched. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Money! Proper sewage hookup and maintenance costs thousands. This way, he gets to flush without paying the full price.”

I thought about Todd’s endless renovations and his boasts about cutting corners to maximize profit.

“Can you document this? Take pictures, write up a report… everything?”

Mike nodded. “Already on it. You planning to confront him?”

I watched a drop of contaminated water seep into the soil where my grandmother’s roses were dying.

“Not exactly. I’m going to need a second opinion on this.”

***

That evening, I called my cousin Nate. Unlike me with my digital design work, Nate’s business was decidedly physical — a contracting company specializing in plumbing and electrical fittings.

“He did WHAT?!?” Nate’s voice exploded through my phone speaker when I explained the situation.

“Redirected his sewage into my garden,” I repeated, pacing my kitchen. “The plumber confirmed it.”

“That’s not just disgusting, it’s illegal as hell, Bets. We’re calling the city tomorrow.”

“Actually,” I said, an idea forming as I stared out the window at Todd’s house, where he was setting up elaborate lighting for what appeared to be a social media video. “I was thinking of something more… immediate.”

“Bets, what exactly are you planning?”

“Did you know Todd’s hosting a backyard BBQ this weekend? Some sponsorship thing for his social media channel. There’ll be influencers, local press…”

Silence followed, then a low chuckle. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Can you reroute a pipe to connect to a sprinkler system? Hypothetically speaking.”

More silence, then: “You’re evil, you know! I’ll be there tomorrow night. After dark.”

Nate arrived as promised, a toolbox in hand and a gleam in his eye I recognized from our childhood pranks.

“This is probably the most unethical job I’ve ever done,” he whispered as we crept along the property line. “And definitely the most satisfying.”

Working by flashlight, Nate disconnected the illegal pipe from my garden and rerouted it with remarkable efficiency. But instead of directing it to the proper sewer line, he connected it to Todd’s elaborate sprinkler system.

“The best part,” Nate explained, installing a small electronic device, “is this smart sensor. It won’t activate randomly… only when he manually turns on his sprinklers.”

“Which he loves to show off to visitors,” I added with grim satisfaction.

“Exactly.” Nate stood, dusting off his hands. “Just one more thing.”

He handed me a ziplock bag.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Evidence,” he winked. “Just in case he doesn’t get the message.”

***

Saturday arrived, all sun and smiles, perfect for an outdoor gathering.

Todd’s yard filled with guests by noon. From my patio, sipping lemonade with Nate, I had a perfect view of the spectacle. Women in sundresses and men in expensive casual wear, everyone clutching craft beers and taking photos of elaborately plated appetizers.

At the center of it all stood Todd, dazzling in salmon shorts and a white shirt, gold chain catching the light as he demonstrated his fancy grill to what appeared to be a local lifestyle blogger.

“And now,” Todd’s voice carried across the fence, “let me show you the crown jewel of modern outdoor living… my custom irrigation system.”

Nate nudged me. “Here we go, boss!”

Todd pressed a button on his phone with theatrical flair. “Watch this!”

For a moment, everything seemed normal as the sprinklers activated with a gentle hiss, sending a fine mist across the lawn. Guests smiled appreciatively.

Then, the smell hit.

“Oh my god!” a woman in oversized sunglasses gagged. “What is THAT?”

A man in linen pants sniffed his beer suspiciously. “Did something die?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” The lifestyle blogger stepped back from the grill, her face contorting.

Todd looked confused, then horrified as realization dawned. He frantically jabbed at his phone, but the sprinklers continued their steady spray. Nate’s modifications ensured a full 60-second cycle before shutdown.

“It’s SEWAGE!” someone shrieked. “The sprinklers are spraying sewage!”

Pandemonium erupted. Guests abandoned plates, spilled drinks, and scrambled toward the house. A woman slipped on the wet grass and landed directly in a puddle of the stuff.

“MY SHOES!” she wailed. “THESE ARE LOUBOUTINS!”

Todd stood frozen, his face cycling through confusion, horror, and rage. When the sprinklers finally stopped, an unnatural silence fell over the yard.

That’s when Todd’s gaze locked on me and Nate, watching from my patio. His face turned a shade of purple I’d never seen on a human being.

“YOU!” he bellowed, storming toward the fence.

I met him halfway, carrying my little ziplock package.

“Having plumbing issues?” I asked innocently.

“You did this!” Spittle flew from his lips. “You sabotaged my event! Do you have any idea how important this was? There are INFLUENCERS here!”

I held up the bag containing a clump of my grandmother’s dead roses, soaked in his sewage.

“Funny thing about sewage. It always flows downhill. Just like it flowed from your house into my garden for the past two months.”

His face flickered with recognition, then guilt, quickly masked by anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? The plumber took pictures, Todd. Documented everything. The illegal pipe, the deliberate rerouting into my property. All to save yourself what… a couple thousand bucks while destroying plants that have been in my family for decades?”

The lifestyle blogger edged closer, her phone obviously recording.

“Is this true?” she asked Todd. “You illegally dumped sewage into her garden?”

Todd’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “It wasn’t… I didn’t…”

I handed him the ziplock bag with the label: “Return to sender, Todd. We reap what we sow.”

As I walked away, I heard the blogger ask, “So, ‘Todd the Modern Man’ is actually ‘Todd the Sewage Dumper’? That’s going to make quite the headline.”

The aftermath was swift and devastating.

The city inspectors arrived Monday morning. By afternoon, Todd received citations for illegal plumbing modifications, environmental contamination, and operating without permits. The fines totaled thousands more than he’d saved with his shortcut.

Meanwhile, the lifestyle blogger’s article went viral: “Influencer’s Backyard BBQ Goes to Crap—Literally.” Someone had recorded video of the sprinkler incident, and it spread across social media faster than the sewage had spread across Todd’s lawn.

His “Todd the Modern Man” channel hemorrhaged followers. The grill company publicly severed ties. My personal favorite was a meme under his last post: “More like Todd the Poo Sprinkler Manager.”

***

A week later, I was in my garden, removing contaminated soil, when a shadow fell across me. I looked up to find Todd standing there, deflated and the swagger gone from his stance.

“I’m selling the house.”

I straightened up, brushing dirt from my gloves. “That was quick.”

“Can’t exactly salvage my brand here.” He hesitated, then added reluctantly, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your garden. I didn’t think it would… kill everything.”

I gestured to the barren patches. “These roses were my grandmother’s. They can’t be replaced.”

He nodded, actually looking genuinely remorseful. “The, uh, the new buyers seem nice. Young family. They actually like your oak tree… said it’s perfect for a swing.”

I felt something unexpected then… not forgiveness exactly, but a loosening of the knot of anger I’d carried. “Good.”

As Todd walked away, I called after him: “Hey?!”

He turned.

“Next time you want to play with crap, try keeping it at your own house.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair enough.”

Three months later, my garden showed signs of recovery. The young family next door—Lisa, Mark, and their five-year-old twins—had already proven to be everything Todd wasn’t: considerate, friendly, and appreciative of my ancient oak tree.

One afternoon, as I was planting new herbs, Lisa called over the fence.

“Betty! We found something while filling the sandbox for the kids.”

She led me to their yard and pointed to a scraggly bush I hadn’t noticed before. It was a neglected, half-dead plant with a few stubborn green leaves and a pink rose clinging to thin branches.

“Is that…?” I knelt beside it, hardly daring to hope.

“The previous owner must have dug it up and tossed it aside,” Lisa said. “Mark thought it was dead, but I noticed new growth.”

I gently touched the leaves, tears springing to my eyes. “It’s one of my grandmother’s roses. I thought they were all gone.”

That evening, I carefully transplanted the rose bush back into my garden. As I patted the soil around its roots, I whispered, “Welcome home, old friend!”

Months later, against all odds, it bloomed with a nostalgic fragrance that took me straight back to my childhood.

I cut the bloom and placed it in a small vase on my kitchen windowsill. Every morning when I made coffee, I looked at that rose and smiled.

Sometimes, life gives you crap, literally! But what matters is what grows from it afterward.