At 74 years old, I thought I’d experienced it all, but nothing prepared me for the chaos in my own backyard. I’m Margaret, and my home, a joyful haven for two decades, has been filled with family memories.
My pride was a charming pond, dug by my late grandfather, which had become the heart of our family gatherings.
My seven grandchildren adored that pond, but everything changed when Brian moved in next door five years ago. From the start, he complained about the pond.
“Margaret!” he’d yell over the fence. “Those frogs are keeping me awake! Can’t you do something?”
I’d respond with a smile, “Oh, Brian, they’re just serenading you.”
Unamused, Brian would gripe about mosquitoes, to which I’d retort, “I keep the pond clean. The mosquitoes might be coming from your yard.”
I hoped he’d adjust, but I was wrong. When I returned from a visit to my sister, I was devastated to find my pond filled in.
Mrs. Johnson from across the street rushed over. “Margaret, I tried to stop them, but they had orders to drain and fill your pond!”
My heart sank. “Brian,” I muttered, realizing who was behind this.
“What will you do?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
I squared my shoulders. “Brian thinks he can push me around? He’s about to learn why you don’t mess with Margaret!”
I rallied my family, and my daughter Lisa was furious. “Mom, we need to call the police!”
“Hold on,” I said. “We need proof.”
My granddaughter Jessie suggested checking our bird camera. It showed Brian directing a crew to fill the pond.
“Gotcha,” I said with a grin.
Brian clearly thought he could get away with this. I had other plans.
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