I’m Edna, an old widow who’s lived in the same cozy house for over 50 years. My late husband Harold and I built our life here, raised our children here, and tended every inch of this lawn with care. Even now, it’s just me and the memories, and every blade of grass feels sacred.

So you can imagine the shock when I looked out one morning to find a shiny pickup truck parked smack in the middle of my immaculate lawn. Deep tire marks tore through the grass like scars. I hobbled outside with my cane and confronted the young woman next door, asking her to move the truck. She smirked and replied, “You don’t even own a car. What’s the harm?”

I was stunned by her arrogance, but it didn’t stop there. The next day, the truck was back — same place, same damage. When I confronted her husband, he said coldly, “You’re alone. It’s just grass.” That’s when I knew — if I didn’t do something, they’d keep walking all over me… and my lawn.

That night, while searching the garage for a rake, I found an old canister of Harold’s. Inside were tiny, sharp tacks — nearly invisible in grass. A risky idea sparked in my mind…