My Neighbor Drove over My Lawn Every Day as a Shortcut to Her Yard

The sprinkler roared to life.

First, the front tire. Then the open window. Then a glorious, soaking spin that left her SUV drenched.

She shrieked, slammed the brakes, and leapt out of the car—soaked head to toe, makeup streaming like candle wax.

She never crossed my lawn again.

A week later, someone knocked.

I opened the door to find a man in his 50s, holding a small lavender plant like it might make things right.

“I’m Seth,” he said softly. “Sabrina’s husband.”

He looked like a man who’d been apologizing for years.

Weeks passed. My lawn began to bloom again.

The chicken wire? Gone. The sprinkler? Still there, not out of spite, but for remembrance.

Some things broke me. And some things, like a thriving flowerbed or a perfectly timed spray of water, helped put me back together.