Bags split open, trash frozen into the snow, and my children asking questions I didn’t have easy answers for. At first, I assumed it was a fluke. Then I noticed the pattern: tire tracks cutting straight across the lawn, always the same route, always leading back to my neighbor Mike’s large SUV.
When I tried to address it respectfully, he dismissed me with a shrug and excuses. It wasn’t just the mess—it was the message that my concerns didn’t matter. The moment I watched him do it on purpose, knocking the bins aside without slowing down, something clicked.
I didn’t yell or confront him again. I was tired of proving I deserved basic respect. Instead, I chose a quieter approach.
