She called the city. Then the police. Then, somehow, even my mortgage company—claiming I was “damaging the value of the neighborhood.”
Finally, she demanded an official city survey.
“I know exactly where my property line is!” she snapped, shaking her cane at me. “You’re trespassing by three feet. That land is mine.”
I was exhausted. Emotionally drained. I just wanted the noise to stop.
“Fine,” I said. “If the survey proves I’m wrong, I’ll tear the fence down and cover your costs.”
She smiled sharply. “You’ll pay double.”
The surveyor arrived a few days later. He spent hours measuring, rechecking old markers, and placing flags. Brenda watched from her porch the entire time, arms crossed, waiting for her moment of triumph.
When he finished, he walked over to me. His expression wasn’t angry or confused.
