For years, my backyard was my sanctuary. Quiet, shaded, and framed by a wooden fence I built myself—after a friendly handshake agreement with my old neighbors. It wasn’t exactly on the property line, but close enough. They didn’t mind. I paid for everything, and they got privacy for free. It was a win-win.
Then came Kayla.
She was a city realtor with a sharp tongue and sharper heels, flipping homes like playing cards. Within months of moving in, she had a survey done and showed up at my door with papers and threats. My fence, she claimed, encroached nine inches onto her land. She demanded I remove it or pay her. She called it “ugly,” “old,” and said I’d regret keeping it.
To avoid conflict, I took it down.
A week later, she returned—shaken, desperate, and pleading. Turns out, the fence had been protecting her. Without it, a city inspector noticed her lavish patio, outdoor kitchen, and hot tub were illegally built over my property. The fence had masked the encroachment. Now, she faced fines, demolition orders, or the cost of buying my land.
She begged me to reinstall the fence. Not for aesthetics—but to restore the illusion of a boundary that might save her thousands.
I paused. She had insulted me, threatened legal action, and mocked my craftsmanship. Now she wanted my help?
I told her I’d consider it—on my terms. I asked for a formal apology, full reimbursement for the removal, and coverage for any future costs. Her face flushed with humiliation, but she agreed.
In the end, karma didn’t just teach her a lesson—it drew a line she couldn’t ignore.
