When my new neighbor, Claire, moved in six months ago, I assumed she was just a regular person. A quiet woman who would keep to herself and not stir up any trouble.
She was in her forties, lived with her sixteen-year-old son, Adam, and at first, everything seemed fine. She was friendly enough. I lent her a ladder when she needed one, a garden hose when hers wasn’t working, and even let her use our outdoor grill station whenever we weren’t home. It was just a neighborly thing to do. Right?
Wrong.
One weekend, my husband, David, and I decided to take our kids to visit my parents. It had been a while since we had a break, and I was looking forward to a little getaway.
“We can have a date night while your parents take over with Grandma and Grandpa duty,” David said, stuffing a few snacks into our bag for the two-hour drive.
I nodded, feeling excitement bubble in my chest. I had been restless, and this little trip was exactly what I needed before I felt completely suffocated by the same old routine.
We were gone for two days.
And when we got back?
Oh. My. God.
Our backyard looked like it had been through a war. A full-blown frat party massacre.
Empty beer bottles were scattered all over the patio. My potted plants had been knocked over, dirt spilling onto the wooden deck. The kids’ toys were thrown everywhere, some of them broken. Grease stains covered the deck, thick and sticky. And our once-beautiful grill station? It looked like someone had detonated a grease bomb on it.
I stood there, eyes wide, hands clenched into fists at my sides. My heart pounded in my chest.
Deep breaths, Camilla. Maybe there’s an actual explanation for this.
Trying to stay calm, I marched next door and knocked. Claire answered, still in her pajamas, her hair a mess, looking as if she had just woken up.
“Oh, yeah!” she said with a laugh. “That was Adam’s birthday party. You know kids, right? It’s just what they do.”
I blinked. My brain felt like it had short-circuited.
That’s just what kids do? Was she serious? Couldn’t she see the mess? What the hell?!
“My backyard isn’t a public park, Claire. You could have at least cleaned up.”
Claire shrugged, completely unbothered. “Oh, don’t be so uptight, Camilla. It’s just a little mess. You’ll get over it. Surely, you and your husband know how to use a hose? A little bit of water will clear that up.”
I could have thrown something at her.
Oh, I’ll get over it? Sure.
Fuming, I stormed back inside, trying to figure out what to do. I could be reasonable, or I could make Claire pay.
David was in the kitchen when I walked in, making himself a cup of tea. He looked up and raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that look on your face? Found the culprit?”
“It was Adam’s birthday party,” I muttered, grabbing the jar of biscuits. “Apparently, that’s how he spent it.”
David frowned. “Isn’t he, like, sixteen?”
“Something like that,” I said, dunking a biscuit into my tea. “Oh, and there were tons of beer bottles out there. Underage drinking.”
David chuckled, shaking his head. “Every kid does it at least once, Cami. But… you could use that as leverage, right? Scare the kid a little?”
I nodded slowly. “Oh, I plan to. But I also want Claire to feel something, too. She told me I’d ‘get over it.’ Like it was no big deal.”
We sat there in silence, sipping our tea, until an idea formed in my mind.
Okay, Cami. Let’s try being reasonable first.
I grabbed a notepad and wrote down three simple rules:
- If you use something, clean it and put it back.
- Respect my property.
- Clean up after your child.
The next morning, I went over and handed the note to Claire, expecting her to react like a mature adult.
Instead, the next day, I woke up to a list of HER rules taped to my front door.
I almost choked on my coffee as I read it:
Dear Neighbors,
To keep things fair and neighborly, I’ve put together some simple rules:
- No grilling past 7 PM. The smell keeps me awake.
- No spicy seasonings. My son doesn’t like the smell.
- If I’m using the grill, stay out of the yard. It’s distracting.
- Notify me before grilling so I know who’s using it. Schedules are key.
- Your garden hose is for community use. I may need it for my car or garden.
- Patio furniture is for everyone.
- When you mow your side of the lawn, do mine too.
- Be patient if my son leaves trash in your yard. Kids will be kids.
- I might use your driveway for extra parking when needed.
Looking forward to a harmonious neighborhood!
I read it twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Claire actually thought she had just claimed my backyard as her personal kingdom.
Then Olivia, my eldest daughter, came running up, phone in hand.
“Mom, you need to see this,” she said, showing me a video.
Claire’s son, Adam, had been posting TikTok videos.
From our backyard.
In the clips, he and his friends laughed about using our space like it was their personal hangout. And then they trashed the place. On camera.
Oh. Oh.
I grabbed my phone immediately. I walked to the backyard and filmed everything—the litter, the grease-stained grill, the beer bottles still rolling on the patio. I zoomed in on the ridiculous list of rules Claire had taped to my door.
Then I posted it online.
Within three days, the video had over 5 million views. People were furious.
Comments flooded in:
Excuse me? HER rules?! For YOUR house?!
No way, put up a fence ASAP. These people are insane.
Tell me you have an entitled neighbor without telling me you have an entitled neighbor.
Then someone offered to help.
A man in the comments specialized in building fences. By the end of the week, my backyard was sealed off like Fort Knox.
No more free space for Claire and her son.
And she noticed. Immediately.
She stormed over, holding a wooden spoon, pounding on my door.
“You’re breaking my rules!” she screeched.
I sipped my coffee, smiling sweetly. “What’s with the spoon? Baking something?”
“I SAID, YOU’RE BREAKING MY RULES, CAMILLA!”
I tilted my head. “Oh, I just thought since we had different house rules, it was best to keep things separate.”
She fumed. I sipped my coffee.
My water bill improved overnight. My driveway stayed empty. Peace returned.
And then, two days later, there was a knock.
Not Claire.
Adam.
“Please,” he muttered. “You’re ruining my life.”
I smirked. Actions have consequences, kid.
And Claire? She finally admitted defeat.
“You win,” she whispered one night, cigarette in hand.
“Not a competition,” I said.
But between us?
It totally was.
And I won.
