After my divorce, I didn’t just want a fresh start—I needed it. That’s what led me to a sleepy cul-de-sac, into a little white house with a porch swing and a yard I could call mine. That lawn became my therapy. I planted roses from my grandmother’s clippings, named my mower Benny, and found peace in the hum of the grass and the clink of my sweet tea glass.
It was sacred ground—until Sabrina rolled in like a storm in stilettos. Her SUV began cutting across my lawn like it was a shortcut to her kingdom, tearing through flowerbeds and crushing weeks of healing beneath her tires. At first, I asked nicely. Then I tried rocks. But when she shoved them aside and smiled like it was all a joke, I realized: this wasn’t about flowers—it was about me. And I’d been invisible long enough.
