My name’s Evelyn—Evie to most—and after years of scraping by, working late shifts, and skipping vacations, my husband Nate and I finally bought our dream home. A slice of paradise by the water, framed with palm trees and ocean breeze. It was everything we’d ever wanted. Peaceful. Quiet. Perfect… until we met the neighbor.
Three days after moving in, I was knee-deep in boxes when a sharp knock at the door interrupted me. A woman with bleach-blonde hair, oversized sunglasses, and a smirk stood on our porch.
“Hi! I’m Tammy from next door,” she said, already peering into our home. “Just dropping by to let you know we’re having a barbecue on Saturday. We’ll be setting up in the backyard, like always.”
I frowned. “Our backyard?”
She laughed like I’d said something hilarious. “Oh, honey, it’s a shared space. Always has been. We’ve used it for years.”
“Actually, we bought this unit and the deed includes full rights to the yard and dock. But we’d be happy to have you over—just let us know ahead of time.”
Her smile faded. “You think I need permission? We’ll talk later.”
From their porch, her shirtless boyfriend watched us like we were already enemies.
“Who was that?” Nate asked.
“Our new neighbor,” I said. “And I think we’ve got trouble.”
That Saturday morning, while I enjoyed coffee on the patio, a huge delivery truck pulled into our driveway. Tammy showed up, directing the crew to unload a bounce house right onto our lawn.
“My daughter’s birthday,” she said. “You’ll want to stay inside today—it’s family-only. Randy doesn’t like strangers near the kids.”
I reminded her this was our property, not a public park. But I let it slide for the kid’s sake, warning her it would be the last time.
By noon, the yard was chaos—loud music, shouting, kids screaming. Then one of the guests staggered to our glass door, beer in hand, asking to use our bathroom.
“No,” I said firmly. “You need to use Tammy’s.”
“She said to come here,” he mumbled, trying to push inside.
Nate stepped in. “Back off. Now.”
Tammy appeared, furious we wouldn’t let him in. “You’re so selfish! You don’t deserve this house!”
That was it. I turned to Nate. “I’m calling a contractor.”
“Already looking up fence companies,” he said.
The next morning, a white truck pulled up. We handed the crew coffee and doughnuts while they marked the property line.
The fence, the outdoor kitchen, the firepit—it was all in the plans. We were reclaiming our space.
Tammy stormed out in a huff, demanding to know what we were building. When she realized a six-foot privacy fence was going up, her jaw dropped. “You can’t do that!”
“We have permits,” Nate said. “Everything’s legal.”
Tammy threatened to call the cops—and she did. Two officers showed up. We handed them our documents. Tammy fumed as the officer said, “The fence is within their rights. This is their property.”
Randy stormed out, shirtless and furious, accusing the officers of siding with us because we had money. When he jabbed a finger at one of them, things went downhill fast. He ended up cuffed, face-down in our driveway.
As the patrol car drove off, Tammy screamed, “This isn’t over!”
I smiled. “Oh, I think it is.”
The fence went up. The peace returned. For months, we got glares and muttered insults, but no one dared set foot on our lawn again.
Then came a call from George, the landlord of Tammy’s unit. “I’m selling,” he said. “Want to make an offer before I list it?”
“We’re interested,” I told him, grinning at Nate.
Three weeks later, we signed the papers.
I knocked on Tammy’s door, contract in hand. She opened it, already scowling.
“I just wanted to say hello,” I said. “I’m your new landlord.”
Her face fell.
“We’ll need the unit vacated by July. Or sooner—if you want a relocation bonus.”
She slammed the door.
Weeks passed. The rent stopped coming, and we filed for eviction. Then one day, a silver car pulled up. Tammy’s mother stepped out, a kind woman named Darlene.
She knocked on our door, banana bread in hand.
“Tammy will be out by the end of the month,” she said. “And here’s the rent—plus a little extra. I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
By the following month, the moving truck came. Tammy didn’t wave goodbye, but her mother did.
As they drove off, Nate turned to me. “What do we do with the second unit?”
“Maybe we rent it to someone who understands boundaries,” I said. “Or maybe we keep it all to ourselves.”
He laughed. “To boundaries—and knowing when to build them.”
Sometimes peace isn’t found. Sometimes, you build it. One fence at a time.
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