Her smile faltered. “You think I need permission? We’ll talk later.”
From her porch, a man I assumed was her partner looked over with a less-than-welcoming expression.
“Who was that?” Nate asked when I came inside.
“Our neighbor,” I said, “and I think things might get interesting.”
That Saturday morning, as I sipped coffee on the patio, a delivery truck pulled into our driveway. Tammy arrived directing workers who began unloading a bounce house—right onto our lawn.
“It’s my daughter’s birthday,” she said cheerfully. “You might want to stay indoors today—it’s family only.”
I reminded her the yard was private property, not a public park. But I decided to let it go—for the child’s sake—with a polite warning that it couldn’t happen again.
By noon, the yard was noisy with music, games, and guests. Then one of them wandered up to our back door, drink in hand, asking to use our bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll need to use Tammy’s.”
“She said to come here,” he replied, stepping forward.
Nate calmly stepped in. “This isn’t the place. Please head back.”
Tammy later accused us of being unfriendly. “You don’t even deserve this house!” she snapped.
That was the final straw.
“I’m calling a contractor,” I told Nate.
“Already looking up fencing companies,” he replied.
The next morning, we greeted a team of builders with coffee and doughnuts as they marked out the property lines. The new fence, outdoor kitchen, and firepit were all part of our plan to reclaim and enjoy our space.
Tammy rushed over, asking what we were doing. When she learned it was a six-foot privacy fence, she protested loudly.
“You can’t do that!”
“We have permits,” Nate explained. “Everything’s by the book.”
She threatened to call the police—and did. But when officers arrived and reviewed our documents, they confirmed we were fully within our rights.
Her partner became upset and argumentative, and the situation briefly escalated. The officers remained professional, and everything was handled calmly and according to protocol.
After that day, things got quiet. We received a few icy stares and muttered comments, but no more uninvited gatherings.
Then came a call from George, the landlord of Tammy’s unit.
“I’m planning to sell,” he said. “Would you like to make an offer?”
“We’re very interested,” I replied with a smile.
Three weeks later, we signed the papers.
I knocked on Tammy’s door, holding the contract in hand. She opened it, already annoyed.
“I just wanted to say hi,” I said. “I’m your new landlord.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“We’ll need the unit vacated by July. Or sooner, if you’d like a relocation incentive.”
She closed the door without another word.
Weeks passed. When rent payments stopped, we filed for eviction. Then one day, a silver car pulled in. Tammy’s mother stepped out with a smile and a loaf of banana bread.
“She’ll be out by the end of the month,” she said kindly. “And here’s the rent—plus a little extra. I’m truly sorry for the trouble.”
Sure enough, a moving truck arrived weeks later. Tammy didn’t say goodbye, but her mother gave us a wave as they drove off.
Nate turned to me. “What should we do with the second unit?”
“Maybe rent it to someone who respects boundaries,” I said. “Or maybe we just enjoy the extra space.”
He laughed. “To boundaries—and knowing when to build them.”
Sometimes peace isn’t something you find. Sometimes, it’s something you build—one fence at a time.