I’ve had to deal with bad neighbors before, but none like this one. He didn’t just show up with a fake smile—he came with a camera crew, a designer dog, and plumbing habits that could make a raccoon look classy. This guy took my sweet grandma’s perfect garden and turned it into a smelly disaster zone… just to save a few bucks. But don’t worry—I gave him a gift he’ll never forget. The whole town still talks about it.
Hi, I’m Betty. I’m 30 years old, and I live in my grandparents’ old cottage. It’s got a white picket fence, cozy corners, and my grandma’s beautiful garden that she worked on for decades. I’m a graphic designer who works from home, and my office window looks right over that garden. It used to inspire me… until Todd moved in next door.
I still remember the day he arrived. His huge moving truck blocked my driveway. Out stepped Todd—slick hair, gold chain flashing in the sun, barking orders on his phone like he was running a Wall Street deal. He was shouting about “another successful flip” while the movers huffed boxes up his front steps.
I waved with a big smile. “Hey there! Welcome to Maple Lane! I’m Betty, your neighbor.”
Todd lowered his phone and gave me a quick look, then smirked at his new house. “Todd,” he said. “Got this place for a steal. Gonna turn it into something actually worth seeing.”
I blinked at the charming cottage he had just bought. “It’s already a beautiful home.”
He laughed. “If you like outdated junk. Don’t worry—once I’m done, even your place will go up in value. You’re welcome.”
Then his small, jumpy dog barked like crazy while Todd went right back to his phone call, turning away without even saying goodbye.
“Well,” I said softly to my garden as I walked back inside, “this is going to be… interesting.”
And interesting quickly turned into awful. A month in, and I felt like I was living in a construction site. The noise was one thing. But Todd? He was worse. Every time I saw him, it felt like he was trying to win some kind of invisible competition.
One afternoon, I was trimming my old oak tree when his voice cut through the air behind me.
“That tree has to go,” he said like he was announcing a business deal. He stood there like he was posing for Instagram—hands on hips, sunglasses gleaming.
I almost fell off my ladder. “Excuse me?”
“It’s blocking sunlight from my new deck,” he said, pointing to the giant wooden monster attached to his house. “I need full sun for my outdoor content. Hashtag aesthetic.”
I climbed down, still holding my pruning shears. “This tree’s been here for seventy years. It’s not going anywhere.”
“BETTY,” he said, dragging out my name like I was some ancient relic. “This deck cost twelve grand. Your tree is hurting my investment.”
I stared at him. “Trees make shade, Todd. That’s kind of their thing.”
He clenched his jaw. “I could report it as a safety hazard.”
I pointed with my shears. “It’s healthy and it’s not even near your property line.”
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, then added, “Oh, and maybe train your dog to stop barking at mine. Some of us work from home.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t have a dog. That’s YOUR dog barking at squirrels all day!”
He waved as he walked away like he hadn’t heard me.
“Unbelievable,” I told my oak tree. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
But things weren’t done getting worse.
Soon, my garden started smelling… off. Not compost. Not fertilizer. Something nasty. I noticed my boots sinking into the soil. My tomatoes went yellow. My herbs drooped. My grandma’s prized roses—the ones she called her “jewels”—started dying.
“No, no, no,” I whispered one morning, kneeling next to the wilted roses. “What’s happening to you, babies?”
The smell grew stronger. I couldn’t deny it anymore—it was sewage.
I called a plumber immediately.
When he arrived, a kind-eyed man named Mike, I explained, “Something’s leaking into my garden. I think it’s sewage.”
Mike followed me around, sniffing the air and poking the soil. “Yeah,” he said, frowning. “Something’s definitely wrong here.”
He pulled out his tools and got to work.
An hour later, he called me over. “Found your problem,” he said, pointing behind my shed at a green pipe half-buried in mulch. “But it’s weird. This pipe doesn’t connect to your house.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where does it connect?”
He ran a camera into the pipe. We watched the screen as it snaked through dirt, turned a few corners… and stopped right under Todd’s deck.
“That’s… that’s Todd’s house!” I gasped.
Mike nodded. “Someone ran part of their sewage line right into your yard. Judging by the fittings, it’s recent.”
“Why would anyone do that?” I asked.
“Simple,” Mike said. “Money. Hooking up properly costs thousands. This way, your neighbor gets to flush for free.”
I stood there, shocked. I looked at my grandmother’s roses again, now brown and limp. My stomach twisted.
“Can you document all of this?” I asked. “Photos, report, everything.”
“Already doing it,” Mike said. “You planning to talk to him?”
I watched a drop of sewage seep into the dirt where my garden used to thrive.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m calling someone first.”
That night, I called my cousin Nate. He’s a contractor—plumbing, electrical, the works. Unlike me, who designs logos and websites, Nate builds things.
“He did WHAT?!” Nate practically shouted through the phone.
“Rerouted his sewage into my garden,” I repeated. “Mike the plumber confirmed it.”
“That’s so illegal,” Nate said. “We’re calling the city tomorrow.”
“Actually…” I paused, looking out the window. Todd was setting up camera lights for some flashy video. “I was thinking something more… creative.”
There was silence on the line. Then Nate laughed. “What are you up to, Bets?”
“Well,” I said, “Todd’s hosting a big influencer BBQ this weekend. Fancy guests. Local bloggers. Free food. You know, very Todd.”
“Oh no,” Nate chuckled. “You want to make it unforgettable?”
“Can you… hypothetically… connect a pipe to someone’s sprinkler system?”
More silence. Then Nate said, “You’re evil. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
Nate showed up after dark, toolbox in hand and a wicked grin on his face.
“This might be my most satisfying job ever,” he whispered as we snuck along the fence line.
He got to work fast. He disconnected Todd’s illegal pipe from my garden and rerouted it—to Todd’s own sprinkler system.
“But wait,” Nate said, fitting a small gadget. “This little sensor makes sure the sprinklers only go off when he turns them on. So it won’t just happen randomly.”
“He always shows off that system,” I said, smiling. “He’ll do it during the party.”
“Perfect,” Nate said. “Oh, and here’s this.” He handed me a plastic bag with some of my dead roses inside.
“For what?”
“Evidence,” he said with a wink.
Saturday came with sunshine and way too much ego. Todd’s yard was full of guests in fancy clothes. I sat on my patio with lemonade, Nate beside me, both of us enjoying the show.
Todd strutted around in salmon shorts, flipping burgers, laughing too loud, and showing off his fancy setup.
“And now,” he said, holding up his phone, “my pride and joy—custom sprinklers. Watch this!”
Nate nudged me. “Showtime.”
Todd pressed a button.
At first, everything looked normal. Mist sprayed gently across the lawn. People smiled.
Then the smell hit.
“OH MY GOD!” someone screamed.
“Is that—what IS that smell?” another guest gagged.
“Is this some kind of prank?” a woman backed away, covering her face.
Todd froze. His smile vanished. Guests ran for the house, yelling and cursing. One woman slipped and fell into a puddle. “MY SHOES!” she cried. “THESE ARE LOUBOUTINS!”
The sprinklers kept going for a full minute before shutting off. A deadly silence fell.
Todd slowly turned and spotted us.
“YOU!” he roared, storming to the fence.
I met him halfway, holding the ziplock bag. “Plumbing trouble?”
“You did this!” he shouted. “You RUINED my event!”
I held up the bag. Inside were my grandma’s dead roses, brown and soaked.
“Sewage killed my garden,” I said. “I thought you might want some of it back.”
“That’s a lie!” he sputtered. “I didn’t—”
“The plumber has photos. A full report. You rerouted sewage into my yard to save money.”
A blogger nearby had her phone out. “Is that true, Todd?” she asked. “You dumped sewage illegally?”
“I… I didn’t mean to—”
I handed him the bag. “Return to sender, Todd. We all reap what we sow.”
The fallout came fast.
By Monday, city inspectors were at Todd’s house. He was fined for illegal plumbing, environmental damage, and building without permits. The total cost? Way more than he’d ever saved.
The blogger’s video went viral. Headlines read: “Influencer’s Party Goes to Crap—Literally!” People online called him “Todd the Poo Sprinkler”. He lost sponsors. His channel fell apart.
A week later, he showed up in my yard, looking like a balloon that had lost its air.
“I’m selling the house,” he muttered.
“That was fast,” I said, brushing soil from my gloves.
He sighed. “I’m sorry about the garden. I didn’t think it would… do all that.”
“These roses were my grandmother’s,” I said. “They meant everything to her.”
“The new buyers seem nice,” he added. “Young family. They actually like your oak tree. Said it’s perfect for a swing.”
I felt something shift inside me. Not forgiveness. But peace.
“Good,” I said.
As he turned to go, I called, “Hey, Todd!”
He looked back.
“Next time you mess with crap… keep it in your own yard.”
He actually smiled a little. “Fair enough.”
Three months later, my garden was finally coming back to life. The new neighbors—Lisa, Mark, and their five-year-old twins—were kind and respectful. One afternoon, Lisa waved me over.
“Betty! Look what we found while digging the sandbox!”
By a scraggly bush in their yard, she pointed at a half-dead plant with a single pink rose.
“It looks like one of yours,” she said.
I knelt beside it, heart pounding. “It’s one of my grandmother’s roses. I thought they were all gone.”
I took it home and replanted it in my garden with care. Weeks later, it bloomed again. Same soft pink, same sweet scent from my childhood.
Now it sits in a vase by my kitchen window.
Life can dump a lot of garbage on you—but sometimes, with a little help, something beautiful grows right back.
