At first, I tried to play it straight. I sent an email to the HOA, laid everything out clearly, cited the city code, attached photos, even asked politely for documentation proving they actually had authority over the street. I kept the tone professional, almost overly respectful because part of me still thought maybe this gets resolved the normal way.
They responded 2 days later, short, vague, and completely unhelpful. The HOA operates under established governing documents. Enforcement actions are within our rights. No attachments, no proof, no specifics, just words. And then about a week later, my truck disappeared again. This time, it wasn’t even subtle. It was gone overnight.
No notice, no warning, like they wanted me to know exactly who was in control. I remember standing there in the morning staring at the empty curb. And instead of feeling surprised or even angry, I just felt tired. Not the kind of tired you get from work, but the kind that comes from realizing you’re dealing with something stubborn and pointless.
That toe cost me more than money. I missed a full job that day, a client I’d been working with for months, and that hit harder than the fee. That’s when it stopped being about inconvenience and started being personal. So, I stopped arguing and I started digging. I called the city planning office first, got bounced around a few departments, zoning, infrastructure, permits until I finally landed on someone who sounded like they actually knew what they were talking about.
I explained the situation, gave them the street name, and asked a simple question. Is this road public or private? There was a pause, keyboard typing in the background, and then the guy said, “Huh, that’s interesting. Not exactly the answer you want to hear.” He explained that the road had been built by the original developer when the neighborhood was first planned.
The intention was to transfer it to the city once construction was complete, which is pretty standard. But for some reason, that transfer never happened. Paperwork stalled. Ownership never finalized. So, who owns it now? I asked. Another pause. more typing. Well, technically, he said it’s still private property owned by who? That’s the thing, he said.
The original development company dissolved years ago. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the wall like I was trying to process a joke that didn’t land. So, you’re telling me the street isn’t public, but it’s not owned by the HOA either? Correct. Then, who’s enforcing parking on it? He gave a small chuckle. The kind that says even he knew how ridiculous it sounded.
That would be questionable. That word stuck with me. Questionable. Because what Carl had been saying, what the HOA had been doing, suddenly it wasn’t just annoying. It was shaky. And shaky things can fall apart. So, I kept going. I started pulling property records, digging through old filings, things I’d never thought I’d care about.
Late nights at my kitchen table, laptop open, papers scattered everywhere, coffee going cold while I traced ownership trails that felt like they were designed to confuse people on purpose. The original developer had folded. Their assets had been transferred, then transferred again, bundled into something else, then split up.
It was like following a paper trail through a maze. But eventually, piece by piece, it started to come together. The road along with a few other leftover parcels had ended up in the hands of an investment trust. The kind that buys up forgotten or abandoned infrastructure sits on it, waits for someone to come knocking.
