For six months, my mornings began with frustration. Every day, Richard’s blue Honda Civic blocked my garage—again. He’d moved back in with his parents next door and decided my driveway was his personal parking spot. I tried being civil: knocking on his door, smiling through clenched teeth, accepting his half-hearted apologies. But the pattern never changed. I was late to work. My boss was losing patience. And I was losing mine.
I live alone, by choice. After a string of failed relationships—including one where my boyfriend found “space” in my best friend’s apartment—I’d built a life of independence. My house, my rules, my peace. But Richard’s car was invading that peace every single morning.
One day, I snapped. I stopped knocking. I stopped asking. I started documenting. Photos. Time stamps. Every instance of his car blocking my garage. I filed a formal complaint with the HOA. They fined him $300. He was furious. Claimed I was petty. But I didn’t flinch.
The next morning, the driveway was clear. And it stayed that way.
Sometimes people don’t learn through kindness. They learn through consequence. Richard got his lesson. I got my mornings back.
