Halloween was supposed to be simple that year — just candy, costumes, and keeping three small kids happy. But when I opened my front door one morning to find my car covered in egg yolk and toilet paper, I realized someone had turned the season of pumpkins and porch lights into something much less cheerful.
My name’s Emily. I’m thirty-six, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three little ones — Lily, Max, and Noah. They’re loud, messy, and the reason I get up every morning no matter how tired I am. Most days, I leave before sunrise and come home long after bedtime stories should have ended. Life isn’t fancy, but it’s ours, and that’s enough.
That week, I wasn’t looking for trouble. I had just finished a long twelve-hour shift — the kind that leaves your feet aching and your brain foggy. My landlord’s maintenance truck had blocked our driveway again, so I parked in the only open spot left: in front of my neighbor Derek’s house. I’d done it before. It wasn’t illegal and didn’t block his driveway. But apparently, it was close enough to bother him.
Derek is the neighborhood’s self-appointed holiday expert. He decorates for everything — snow machines at Christmas, heart-shaped lights for Valentine’s Day, fireworks for the Fourth of July. But Halloween is his big event. His yard turns into a full-scale haunted carnival with flashing lights, fog machines, and talking skeletons. The kids love it. I try to stay polite about it. I never imagined it would start a neighborhood feud.
The next morning, when I saw my car, I froze. Yolk dripped down the windshield, toilet paper clung to the mirrors, and bits of eggshell littered the driveway. My three-year-old pressed his face to the window and asked, “Mommy, is the car sick?”
Something inside me snapped.
I left the kids at the table and marched straight to Derek’s house, still in my slippers and scrubs. When he opened the door, fog from one of his Halloween machines drifted past him.
“Derek,” I said firmly. “Did you egg my car?”
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