When my wealthy neighbor, Tom, decided my beloved old sedan was an “eyesore,” he took matters into his own hands and froze my car solid overnight. But karma didn’t take long to deliver a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
I never imagined I’d end up in a neighborhood where every driveway had sleek German cars, and the landscapers adhered to a near-military schedule. But thanks to my company’s corporate housing program, there I was, feeling like an imposter with my dad’s beat-up 1989 sedan parked conspicuously in the driveway.
That car wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a piece of my heart. Every scratch, every dent, carried a memory. The slight bump on the bumper from when Dad first taught me to parallel park, or the crack on the dashboard where he’d tap his fingers to Johnny Cash songs. After Dad passed away, keeping that car running was my way of holding onto him.
One crisp autumn morning, I was washing the car when I heard the unmistakable crunch of expensive loafers on fallen leaves.
“Excuse me,” a voice oozing with entitlement called out. I turned to see my neighbor, Tom—pristine in his golf-club attire—glowering at my car as if it had personally insulted him.
“You can call me Lila,” I replied, not missing a beat in my scrubbing.
“Right.” He gestured toward the car with exaggerated disdain, his signet ring catching the sunlight. “This… vehicle is a problem. It’s lowering property values and ruining the neighborhood aesthetic.”
I straightened up, arms crossed. “It’s my car, Tom. It’s not going anywhere.”
His jaw clenched. “Well, if you don’t get rid of it, I’ll make sure you regret it. Consider yourself warned.”
I laughed him off and went back to washing my car, but a week later, I woke up to find it encased in a thick shell of ice, as if someone had hosed it down in the middle of the night. Tom sat smugly on his porch, sipping coffee, and watching my misery unfold.
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