After my divorce, I wasn’t chasing a fresh start—“I was rebuilding the old one from scratch.” I bought a small house on a quiet cul-de-sac, where my lawn became my sanctuary. “My tiny plot of land became my therapy, my church, my battlefield of hope.” I planted roses from my grandmother’s garden and named my secondhand mower “Benny.” Saturdays were sacred: mow, sip sweet tea, and breathe.

Then Sabrina arrived—“like a rhinestoned hurricane.” She lived at the end of the street, always in heels, always on Bluetooth, always commanding attention. Her Lexus gleamed, her voice carried, and her energy clashed with my quiet world.

At first, I barely noticed her—until tire tracks carved deep into my lawn. “Like a knife through sponge cake,” the damage stung. I chalked it up to a delivery guy or bad luck.

But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, the grass I had lovingly nurtured was crushed. The peace I had pieced together was being trampled—literally.

I had found healing in soil and sun. But now, I had to decide: confront the chaos at the edge of the cul-de-sac or let it grow deeper than the roots I had tried to plant.