My neighbor blocked our driveway twenty-two mornings in a row, making my children late for school three times.
When I finally begged her to stop, she rolled her eyes and said, “You’ll survive.”
I didn’t argue anymore.
Instead, I woke up at 5:30 the next morning, gathered three weeks of evidence, and made one phone call.
By the time she opened her curtains, she wasn’t smiling anymore.
My neighbor Denise moved into number 14 in May.
At first, she seemed perfectly pleasant.
She smiled whenever we passed each other and occasionally waved from her front garden. She had short blonde hair, always wore bright-colored coats, and seemed to know everyone on the street within a fortnight of moving in.
When she introduced herself, she told me she had recently lost her husband and was hoping the new neighborhood would give her a fresh start.
I felt sorry for her.
My husband, Mark, and I had lived at number 12 for eleven years. We had two boys, Oliver, eight, and Harry, six. Our mornings were already busy enough without having to worry about neighborhood problems.
I never imagined Denise would become the reason I dreaded weekday mornings.
She had her own driveway.
There were also two perfectly usable parking spaces along the road outside her house.
Yet she insisted on leaving her silver Vauxhall Corsa directly across the entrance to our driveway.
Not slightly overlapping it.
Not parked close enough to make reversing difficult.
She positioned the car completely across the entrance, with its front facing the hedge.
There was absolutely no room for us to get out.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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