The morning before Halloween, I opened my front door and froze. My car was covered in toilet paper and dripping with egg yolk, shining yellow in the rising sun.
“Mommy… is the car sick?” my three-year-old whispered, pointing with wide eyes.
And just like that, my day began.
I’m Emily. I’m 36, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three loud, sticky, wonderful kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. Most of my mornings start before the sun comes up and don’t end until long after bedtime stories are whispered over sleepy yawns. My life isn’t glamorous, but it’s ours.
And I sure wasn’t looking for drama this Halloween. I didn’t want fights, I didn’t want stress — I just wanted to make it through the holiday without breaking my back carrying a sleeping toddler, backpacks, and groceries into the house. That’s why I’d parked close. But apparently, that simple choice was enough to set off my neighbor Derek — a man who takes holidays way too seriously.
And the eggs on my car? That was just the start.
Meet Derek: The Holiday King
Derek lives two doors down. He’s in his 40s, with too much time and far too many decorations. At first, I thought it was sweet. He seemed like the neighbor who wanted to make the block fun. But over the years, it became… excessive.
Christmas? He blasts carols through outdoor speakers so loud the windows shake. Fake snow sprays across the sidewalk like we live inside a snow globe. Valentine’s Day? The porch glows pink, and the bushes sparkle with red garlands. The Fourth of July? Forget sleeping. It feels like the fireworks are going off in our living room.
But Halloween? That’s Derek’s Super Bowl.
The kids love it, of course. Every October, they press their faces to the window, squealing as his house slowly transforms.
“Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max shouts.
“And the skellytons!”
“Skeletons, baby,” I correct with a tired laugh.
Even little Noah squeals when Derek turns on the fog machines. And okay — it is magical, in its way. If you’re not living next to it, that is.
The Night It Started
A few days before Halloween, I dragged myself home after a 12-hour hospital shift. My body ached. It was past 9 p.m., and I just wanted my bed. But my landlord’s maintenance truck had blocked our driveway again. The only open spot was right in front of Derek’s house.
Not illegal. Not unusual. Just necessary.
My kids were half-asleep in the backseat, still in their pumpkin pajamas that my mom had dressed them in. Lily rubbed her eyes and whispered, “Mama, I’m cold.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I said, unbuckling her gently. “We’ll be inside soon.”
I slung Noah over my shoulder, grabbed Max’s hand, and balanced grocery bags on my wrists. Exhaustion hung on me like a weight. I didn’t think twice about the parking spot.
I should have.
The Morning After
The next morning, as I poured cereal into three mismatched bowls, I glanced out the kitchen window and froze.
My car — my only car — was dripping in eggs. Toilet paper hung from the wipers like ghostly ribbons. The smell hit me next — sour and sharp.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But then I noticed the trail: broken eggshells scattered like breadcrumbs, leading straight from Derek’s driveway.
“Of course,” I muttered.
I marched outside, slippers slapping the pavement. I banged on Derek’s door harder than I meant to. He opened it wearing an orange hoodie shaped like a pumpkin. Behind him, I saw his blinking skull lights and the giant animatronic reaper.
“Derek,” I said, my voice shaking, “did you seriously egg my car?”
He didn’t even flinch.
“Yeah,” he said casually, like we were talking about the weather. “You parked in front of my house, Emily. People can’t see the setup because of your car.”
I blinked. “So… you egged my car because it blocked your decorations?”
“You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he shrugged. “It’s Halloween. It’s just fun. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Fun?” I snapped. “You couldn’t knock on my door? Or leave a note? I have to be at work at 8 a.m., and now I get to scrape egg off my windshield because you wanted a better angle for your fog machine?”
He smirked. “Neighbors come to see my decorations every year. Even your kids watch. Don’t deny it — I’ve seen them. And anyway, you blocked the graveyard. I worked hard on that one.”
“I’m a single mom, Derek. I have three kids. I juggle bags, strollers, backpacks, and groceries. I parked there because I had no choice. I’m not breaking any laws.”
He leaned against the doorframe, smug. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. You chose to have those kids. Maybe next time, you’ll choose to park somewhere else.”
The words stung. I stood there, jaw tight, then nodded once.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
“Okay?” He tilted his head.
“Yes. That’s all.”
I walked away without another word. Lily and Max were watching from the window.
“Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked.
“No,” I said with a smile. “But he messed with the wrong mom.”
A Smarter Plan
That night, after the kids were asleep, I stared out the window at my ruined car. Too angry to cry, too tired to sleep.
So I picked up my phone and started documenting everything. Photos from every angle. A video with the date and time. Evidence.
Then I slipped on a sweater, grabbed the baby monitor, and knocked on my friend Marisol’s door. She answered with a face mask on and chamomile tea in hand.
“You okay, honey? Babies okay?” she asked.
“They’re fine. But… did you see Derek outside last night?”
She frowned. “Yeah. Around 11. I thought he was just fixing those tacky decorations. Honestly, how much does he spend on those? For a grown man, it’s—”
“Marisol, focus,” I laughed. “Would you be willing to say that if someone asked?”
“Of course,” she said firmly. “That man takes holidays way too seriously.”
I thanked her and walked to Rob’s house. He was outside eating a popsicle.
“Don’t tell Maggie,” he whispered. “She’s on me about sugar again.”
When I asked about Derek, he nodded. “He was out there, Emily. Muttering about ‘view blockers.’ I figured it was about your car. Hose it down soon. Eggs will ruin the paint.”
“Would you write that down for me, Rob?”
“Not a problem.”
By the next morning, I had everything I needed. I filed a police report. Officer Bryant came by, calm and kind. He let Max hold his badge and told me to get an estimate for the car. The shop quoted $500.
I printed everything: the photos, police report, neighbor statements, and the estimate. Then I slid a letter demanding payment under Derek’s door — and sent a copy to the HOA.
The Fallout
Two days later, Derek stood at my door, red-faced.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.”
“You damaged my property,” I said firmly. “The police know. The HOA knows. Do you want to take it to court?”
His jaw worked, but he finally shoved a folded receipt at me — proof he’d paid the full detailing amount.
That weekend, he came again. This time with a bucket and rags.
“I paid the detailer,” he muttered. “Thought I could help clean the rest… before you take it in.”
I opened the door halfway, studying him. His smugness was gone. Guilt weighed on him.
“Start with the mirrors,” I said. “And the tires are still a mess.”
He nodded and went to work in silence.
From inside, my kids pressed their noses to the window.
“The skellyton man is washing our car?” Max asked.
“Because he made it dirty,” Lily explained. “And he got caught.”
“That’s right,” I said softly. “Bad choices always leave a mess. And someone always sees.”
Later, we baked Halloween cupcakes and dipped apples in caramel, decorating them with candy eyeballs and sprinkles.
“Are we giving these to trick-or-treaters?” Max asked.
“No,” I said, tapping his nose. “This year, Halloween’s just for us.”
Outside, Derek scrubbed quietly. By Halloween night, his decorations were still up, but the music and fog machines stayed off. The crowds never gathered.
What I Learned
Inside my home, things were peaceful. My kids were full of sugar and giggles. My car was clean. My heart was calm.
That holiday taught me something big: you can’t control your neighbors. You can’t stop people from being petty. But you can control how you respond.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t stoop. I gathered my proof, protected my kids, and kept my peace.
The next day, as Lily and Max packed away their crafts, Max asked, “Mom, are you mad at the skellyton man?”
“Skeleton, baby,” I corrected. “And no, I’m not mad. I’m proud.”
“Proud of what?” Lily asked.
“Proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly. And proud that I didn’t become someone I don’t want to be.”
They nodded like it made sense.
Justice doesn’t always look like revenge. Sometimes, it looks like sipping coffee at your window while the man who wronged you washes egg off your car — and knowing, without a doubt, that you chose strength over spite.
And in that moment, I knew: I hadn’t just held my ground. I’d built something stronger.