She didn’t yell. She didn’t argue. Her mouth opened, then closed, like her brain couldn’t process the words. The smug confidence she’d worn all morning vanished instantly.
“That can’t be right,” she whispered.
“These are original city markers,” the surveyor replied. “They’ve been here since the subdivision was created.”
He packed his equipment, gave me a brief nod, and left us standing in silence.
That neon stake looked small, but it carried enormous consequences.
Brenda stared at it, then at her garage, then at me. The anger was gone. What replaced it was something new—fear.
Without another word, she turned and walked back into her house. The screen door slammed behind her, echoing through the quiet street.
I didn’t feel victorious. I just felt unsettled. All I wanted was privacy—not my neighbor’s garage.
The next few days were strangely silent. No shouting. No calls. Curtains stayed closed. The entire block felt tense, like it was waiting for something to explode.
I finished the fence, but the satisfaction was gone. Every time I looked at her garage, now technically on my land, my stomach twisted.
