I’ve dealt with nasty neighbors before, but this one came with a camera crew, a fake smile, and the plumbing ethics of a raccoon. He turned my late grandma’s pristine garden into a biohazard zone by secretly redirecting his sewage to save money. My return gift to him had the whole town talking.
I’m Betty, 30, and I live in my late grandparents’ old cottage with its picket fence and my grandma’s beloved garden. As a remote designer, my home office overlooking those beautiful flower beds was where magic happened… until my neighbor from hell, Todd, moved in next door.
I still remember the day his moving truck blocked my driveway. He stood there, his gold chain glinting in the sun and designer sunglasses pushed into slicked-back hair. He barked orders at the movers while simultaneously talking loudly on his phone about “another successful flip.”
“Hey there!” I called, waving with the enthusiasm of a friendly neighbor.
“Welcome to Maple Lane! I’m Betty from next door.”
Todd lowered his phone, gave me a once-over, and flashed a smile glancing at his house. “Todd!
Just closed on this place for a steal. Gonna transform it into something actually worth looking at.”
I stared at the perfectly charming cottage he’d purchased. “It’s a beautiful home already.”
“If you’re into outdated everything,” he snorted.
“Don’t worry, my renovations will boost your property value too. You’re welcome in advance.”
His dog, some designer breed that looked visibly anxious, yapped incessantly as Todd returned to his call without so much as a goodbye. “Well,” I whispered to my garden as I retreated, “that’s going to be interesting!”
***
Fast forward a month, and “interesting” had become “insufferable.” The constant construction noise was bad enough, but Todd himself was worse.
Every interaction felt like a competition I never signed up for. I was pruning my beloved oak tree one afternoon when his shadow fell across my yard. “That tree’s gotta go,” he announced, hands on his hips like he was posing for his social media profile — which, as I’d recently discovered, was called “Todd the Modern Man.”
I nearly fell off my ladder.
“Excuse me?”
“Your tree. It’s blocking prime sunlight from hitting my new deck.” He gestured to the monstrous wooden platform he’d installed. “I need full sun exposure for my outdoor content.”
I climbed down, secateurs still in hand.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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