When night fell, I stepped outside with the canister under my arm. My hands trembled slightly, but my heart was steady. Quietly, I scattered the tacks exactly where their truck always parked. They shimmered faintly in the moonlight, hidden in plain sight.
The next morning, I was pouring tea when I heard it — the sharp hiss of air escaping from tires. Peeking out the window, I saw their truck sitting on four flats. The man stood beside it, confused and furious. Moments later, he was banging on my door, yelling, “You did this, didn’t you?!”
But I was ready. I calmly replied, “You parked on my lawn. I asked you to stop.” Before things escalated, I had already called the police. As the sirens approached, he backed off, and officers soon arrived.
After inspecting the scene, one officer said, “You’ve been trespassing and damaging her property. She has every right to defend it.” They handed him a citation for trespassing and property damage. His face fell.
From that day forward, they never parked on my lawn again. They barely looked my way. I never told my son Tom — he had enough on his plate. I’d handled it myself.
That evening, as I sipped tea on the porch with the sun setting over my yard, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: peace… and just a little bit of pride.