Chapter 4: She Didn't Come to Apologize
I opened the door and she was standing on my porch with her arms crossed, a piece of paper in one hand.
The certified mail envelope was tucked under her arm, already torn open.
Her expression wasn't embarrassed.
It wasn't apologetic.
It was furious.
"You got a lawyer?" she said.
"I did."
"Over parking?
Are you serious?"
"I asked you multiple times, Audrey.
You laughed at me."
She unfolded the letter and held it up.
"This says I could be liable for property damage.
Do you know how insane that sounds?"
"It sounds accurate," I said.
"You directed your guests onto my lawn.
One of them told me directly.
You told them the neighbor wouldn't mind."
Something crossed her face.
Just for a second.
"I never said that."
"He was very specific."
"Then he misunderstood me."
I didn't raise my voice.
"The letter explains your options clearly.
If the parking stops, this ends here.
If it continues, Patricia files a formal complaint and we proceed with the damage claim."
Audrey stared at me.
"You're going to make an enemy over a few tire tracks?"
"You made that choice," I said.
"Not me."
She laughed, but it was shorter this time.
Less certain.
"You know what, fine.
Fine.
I'll tell my guests to stay off your precious lawn.
Happy?"
"I'll be happy when it actually stops."
Her jaw tightened.
"It'll stop."
She turned and walked back down my porch steps.
At the bottom she paused, and without turning around she said, "I thought you were a reasonable person."
"I am," I said.
"That's exactly why I documented everything before I did anything."
She didn't respond to that.
She walked back to her house and closed the door behind her.
I stood on the porch for a moment.
The street was quiet.
A neighbor from two doors down, a retired man named Gerald who walked his dog every morning, was standing at the edge of his driveway.
He'd clearly heard some of it.
He gave me a small nod.
I nodded back and went inside.
For the next two weekends, the parties continued — but no cars came onto my lawn.
Audrey's guests parked on the street, sometimes a full block away, but they stayed off my property.
I thought it was over.
Then I came home one Thursday evening to find a long scratch along the side of my car.
It was parked in my own driveway.
The scratch ran from the rear door to the back panel, deep enough that the paint had curled at the edges.
I stood there looking at it for a long time.
There was no way to prove who had done it.
No camera.
No witness.
Nothing.
But I thought about the timing — two weeks after the letter, one week after Audrey had stood on my porch and told me I was making an enemy.
I took photographs of the scratch.
Seventeen of them, from every angle, in the fading evening light.
Then I went inside and called Patricia.
"Document it," she said.
"File a police report tonight, even if they can't act on it.
The report creates a record.
If anything else happens, we have a pattern."
"Do you think she did it?"
A pause.
"I think the timing is notable.
But we work with what we can prove."
I filed the report that night.
The officer who took it was polite and honest — without a witness or camera footage, there wasn't much they could do.
But he wrote it up and gave me a copy of the report number.
I added it to the folder.
The folder was getting thick.
What I didn't know yet was that Audrey had also been making calls that week — and one of them was to my landlord.
Except I didn't have a landlord.
May you like
I owned my home outright.
The person she'd called wasn't my landlord at all.
