For years, my backyard on Maple Street was my sanctuary. I’d built a wooden fence with the blessing of my old neighbors, Jim and Susan—no survey, just a handshake and mutual respect. I paid for everything and poured weekends into its construction. It wasn’t exactly on the property line, but close enough. We were neighbors, not litigators.
Then came Kayla.
She arrived with heels, ambition, and a clipboard—an outsider with a realtor’s eye and a city mindset. Within months, she had a survey done and knocked on my door with papers in hand. “Your fence is nine inches onto my property,” she said coldly. “Move it or pay me.”
I tried to reason with her, explaining the verbal agreement with the previous owners. But she wasn’t interested in neighborly goodwill. She wanted control. I had no choice but to tear down the fence I’d built with my own hands.
Months passed. Kayla began renovations—big ones. She hired contractors, dug up her yard, and even removed trees. But in her rush to flip the property for profit, she overlooked one crucial detail: the local zoning laws. Turns out, her renovations violated multiple codes. The city fined her heavily and halted construction. Worse, her property value plummeted.
And the kicker? The new survey revealed that part of her new patio now encroached on my land.
I didn’t gloat. I simply handed her the same choice she once gave me: “Move it or pay me.”
Karma didn’t just knock—it rebuilt my fence.
