He moved in three months ago. A quiet guy, seemed nice enough at first glance. But it didn’t take long for the trouble to start. My driveway. It’s a short, paved strip, right next to my house. Private property. Mine. And he started treating it like a public parking lot.
The first time, I told myself, it’s probably an oversight. Maybe he had guests, or a delivery. I found a note on his windshield later that day, polite but firm. “Please avoid parking here, this is private property.” He moved it that evening. I thought that was the end of it. I was so, so wrong.
It happened again a few days later. Then a week after that. Each time, a little longer. Each time, a little bolder. Soon, it was every other day. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes overnight. He had his own driveway, tucked around the side of his house, but it was narrow, a bit awkward to back out of. Mine was straight in, straight out. Convenient. Too convenient.
A couple laughing on a couch | Source: Midjourney
My anger simmered. It wasn’t just the inconvenience, though there was plenty of that. I’d be rushing out for an early appointment, only to find his beat-up sedan blocking my path. Or I’d get home late, tired, and have to park on the street and lug my groceries through the rain because he was in my spot. No, it was the principle of it. The sheer arrogance. The disrespect. It felt like he was laughing at me, right to my face. Like he thought he was above the rules.
I tried talking to him. I knocked on his door. He’d answer, usually with a tired nod, a quick apology. “So sorry, won’t happen again.” But it always did. The apologies felt empty, rehearsed. Like he was saying what he thought I wanted to hear, but had no intention of changing. One time, he even gave me a flimsy excuse about his child being sick and needing to get inside fast. As if my driveway was a designated emergency zone. My patience wore thin. Then it snapped.
He was testing me. Pushing my boundaries. And I’ve had enough of people doing that in my life. I decided I wouldn’t be pushed around anymore. I wouldn’t be the nice one, the understanding one. I would teach him a lesson. A real one.
I went online. Did some research. Found exactly what I needed. Heavy-duty, bright yellow. Two of them. Ordered them discreetly. A few days later, they arrived. My heart pounded with a mix of righteous fury and a strange, thrilling anticipation.
Profile of a tired woman | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, there it was. His car. Nestled perfectly in my driveway. He’d even parked a little crooked, taking up more space than necessary. My blood ran cold, then hot. This was it.
I walked out, calm and deliberate. His car hummed softly, still warm from a recent trip. I knelt down. The clamps were easier to attach than I expected. Click. Click. Secure. Then, I wrote a note. Not polite this time. Not apologetic. It was curt. “PRIVATE PROPERTY. Parking here is prohibited. To have your vehicle released, call this number. Release fee: $150.” I taped it firmly to his windshield, right over the driver’s side, so he couldn’t miss it. I took a photo for proof, then walked back inside. My hands trembled, but a grim satisfaction settled over me.
Later that afternoon, I heard a shout from outside. A frustrated, angry sound. I peered through the blinds. There he was, pacing around his clamped car, phone to his ear, probably trying to figure out who to call. He spotted my note. His face crumpled. He tried to tug at a clamp, but it wouldn’t budge. He swore. It felt good. He finally understood.
He called the number on the note. I let it ring twice before answering, disguising my voice slightly. Professional, aloof. He was furious. Demanded to know who I was, how dare I do this. I repeated the terms: $150, cash, no exceptions. He sputtered, argued, threatened. I just hung up. He called back. This time, I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, I saw him walking towards my door, looking determined.
I answered the door with a steely gaze. He stood there, jaw tight. “What the HELL is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice low, shaking. “This is insane! You can’t just clamp my car!”
A man standing in front of an aircraft | Source: Pexels
“It’s my driveway,” I said, my voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil inside me. “You were warned. Repeatedly. This is the lesson.”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated. His shoulders sagged. “Please,” he said, and the anger was gone, replaced by something I hadn’t expected: desperation. “I don’t have that kind of money right now. I just started a new job. I have… a lot on my plate.” He gestured vaguely towards his house, where I knew he lived alone with his young child. “I just needed a quick spot. It’s only for a few minutes sometimes.”
I scoffed. “A few minutes? You left it overnight last week. You’ve blocked me in. I’ve missed appointments because of your ‘few minutes’.” My resolve was firm. This was a boundary I needed to enforce. My life had been chaotic enough recently, and I wouldn’t let anyone else intrude on my space, on my peace. Not again.
He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Please. I’ll give you fifty now. I promise I’ll never park there again. I just… I need my car. I have to pick her up soon.” He looked genuinely distressed. He’s good, I thought. Really good at playing the victim. I shook my head. “One hundred fifty. No discounts.”
He sighed, a deep, shuddering breath. “Fine,” he choked out, turning away. “Fine. Just… give me an hour. I need to get it.”
I watched him walk back to his house, his head bowed. A small part of me, a tiny, buried flicker, felt a pang of something close to guilt. But I squashed it. He deserved it. He needed to learn.
An hour later, he returned. Handed me a crisp stack of bills. His eyes avoided mine. I took the money, walked to the car, and removed the clamps. He got in without a word, started the engine, and backed out. He didn’t even glance my way. The feeling of triumph was bittersweet. I had won, but it felt strangely hollow.
A woman standing in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
That evening, a letter arrived in my mailbox. A thick, official-looking envelope. My breath caught in my throat. Maybe he reported me? I ripped it open. It was from a family lawyer. Not his. Mine. Or, rather, ours. The lawyer who handled my sister’s affairs.
My sister. She’d been gone for years. A tragic, drawn-out battle with illness. I loved her, I did, but her choices had made her life, and mine, so incredibly difficult. After she passed, I’d struggled. I couldn’t face her child, her little girl, who reminded me so much of her, and of everything I felt I’d failed at. I had agreed for the child to be adopted by a close friend of my sister’s, someone capable, someone who could give her a stable home. I never knew who it was, not really. I couldn’t bring myself to find out. The guilt was too heavy.
The letter was about that child. It explained that the child’s guardian had been trying to reach me. Had been trying to introduce us. Had wanted me to be part of her life. It explained that the guardian had moved into the neighborhood recently, specifically to be closer to me, hoping to bridge the gap. That the guardian had been trying to observe me, to understand if I was ready.
And then I saw the name. The guardian’s name. It was his name. My neighbor.
And then, the final line, the one that hit me like a physical blow: “He expressed concerns that you might be struggling, as he’s observed you from a distance. He also mentioned that his daughter, your niece, often asks to see your house, pointing it out when they drive by. He’s been trying to figure out the right time to approach you, and sometimes parked briefly in your driveway because it was the easiest spot to pull over when she was upset or asking questions, or when he had a moment to himself after dropping her off at a new therapy appointment just down the street. He was trying to protect her, and to protect you, from a reunion that might be too jarring.“
My stomach dropped. A cold, nauseating wave washed over me.
Spaghetti in a pot on a stove | Source: Midjourney
My own sister’s child. My niece. He was her guardian. He was taking care of her. And he was trying to connect us.
He was trying to bring my family back to me.
And I had put clamps on his car. I had extorted money from him. I had made his already impossibly hard life, caring for a child he’d selflessly taken in, even harder. All because of a driveway. All because of my own bitter, misguided anger.
I closed my eyes. OH MY GOD. I WAS THE MONSTER. The “lesson” was learned alright. But not by him. By me. And the price was far, far more than $150. It was my own unbearable, crushing guilt.
