My name is Gregory Watson. I’m in my early fifties, and I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for more than twenty years. After my wife, Margaret, passed away from cancer eight years ago, it’s just been me and my grandson, Harry. He’s a smart kid, off in another city on a scholarship. He visits during the holidays, but most of the time, it’s just me and the quiet of this house. I’ve grown to value that peace.
But everything changed when my new neighbor Jack moved in next door. Jack was loud, brash, and had the kind of arrogance you could smell before he even opened his mouth. He brought his son, Drew, a young man in his early twenties, who looked just as entitled. From the beginning, I had a bad feeling about them, but I didn’t expect things to escalate the way they did.
The trouble started with my parking spot. It’s clearly marked, reserved specifically for me. With chronic leg pain and the need for a cane, that spot close to my front door isn’t just a convenience — it’s a necessity. Yet, Jack parked his car there the very first week.
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