It started innocently enough: a folded sheet of paper tucked under our windshield wiper, bold block letters and three exclamation points warning of a rule that didn’t exist. “One car per house! Move the extra one or else!”
We laughed. Our street has no such rule, and both of our vehicles were parked perfectly legally. At first, we chalked it up to a grumpy welcome-to-the-neighborhood moment.
Three days later, our laughter turned into disbelief. Morning light revealed two tow trucks stationed at the curb, front wheels of our cars already lifted. Hearts racing in pajamas and slippers, we rushed outside—and there she was: our new neighbor, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smile suggesting she had been waiting for this moment since moving in.
“Well,” she called out, loud enough for the tow operators to hear, “maybe now you’ll listen when someone tells you the rules.”
We couldn’t help but laugh.
“Wow,” I said, drawing it out, “you really went through with it, huh?”
Her smile faltered. “Yes. There’s one car per house on this street.”
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