“There isn’t,” I said, still grinning. Then I tapped the small etched plates on our windshields. “These are government-issued classic-and-specialty vehicle permits. Street-legal, insured… and yes, allowed to park here.”
The tow operator leaned closer, reading the code. “You didn’t tell dispatch about this,” he muttered to his partner.
Our neighbor’s confidence wobbled. “O-okay, but the rule is—”
“There is no rule,” I said. “And illegally towing protected vehicles? All fines, fees, and penalties get passed to the person who reported it falsely.”
Her voice dropped. “How much?”
I did the math, loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Two trucks. Weekend rate. Permit violations. Administrative fees… about twenty-five thousand dollars, give or take.”
Her face drained of color. “I—I didn’t know!”
I kept my tone friendly. “That’s the problem. You didn’t check, you didn’t ask, and you tried to invent rules because you didn’t like what you saw.”
The tow operators carefully lowered our cars, avoiding her eyes. One leaned out the window: “Ma’am, sir… sorry. Dispatch didn’t flag it.”
I waved it off. “You fixed it. Drive safe.”
As the trucks left, our neighbor stood stunned, pride melting in the morning sun. She opened her mouth like she wanted to argue with physics itself — then closed it.
“Look,” I said softly, “we’re new. We want to be good neighbors. But don’t make up rules and threaten people. It doesn’t end well.”
She nodded once and walked away.
Since then? Silence. No notes, no glares, no phantom “policies.” The street looks the same as the day we moved in — two cars, sun-faded mailbox, lazy oak tree shading the curb. The only difference is the lesson: patience, paperwork, and letting consequences speak for themselves works better than anger.
Have you ever dealt with a tricky neighbor? Share your story of keeping cool and standing your ground below!