After my divorce, I moved into a small house on a quiet cul-de-sac, hoping to rebuild my life.
My lawn became my sanctuary—a space where I planted my grandmother’s roses,
mowed with my secondhand mower “Benny,” and tried to find peace in the little things.
Then came Sabrina. She lived down the street, all stilettos and chaos, and regularly drove
her SUV through my lawn, crushing my flowerbeds. When I politely asked her to stop,
she brushed me off with a smug smile: “Your flowers will grow back.” But to me, that lawn was sacred—it was the first thing I’d
managed to care for since everything fell apart. After decorative rocks didn’t stop her, I turned to creativity.
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