He’s a wonderful lad; he always makes sure the gutters are clear and the yard is mowed. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff, Mom,” he says in his soft-yet-assured voice. Knowing he has his own family and a demanding work schedule, I nod and grin. I don’t always complain since I don’t want to bother him.The house is silent now, as it has been since Harold’s death. Still, it’s my haven, full with memories and love. It is good to be silent, to have a nice blanket around my shoulders. That is, it was, anyway. New neighbors moved in next door a few weeks ago. A youthful couple, noisy and full of enthusiasm. I didn’t mind at first. Over the years, I’ve seen a lot of folks come and go. These neighbors, though, are not like the others. I was having my cup of tea at the window one morning when I noticed something that broke my heart. In the center of my lawn was parked a large, gleaming pickup vehicle. The grass was torn apart by deep tire imprints. My lovely, immaculate grass was destroyed. With a mixture of bewilderment and rage in my heart, I grabbed my cane and staggered outside. When I approached, the spouse emerged. Her tall stature, sultry features, and haughty demeanor caused my blood to boil. I said, trying not to stutter, “Excuse me. “There’s your truck on my grass. Would you kindly move it? <She gave me a naked glance. “There are just two places and three cars. What’s the harm, you don’t own a car?” My jaw went tense. “The fact that this is my lawn is the harm,” I remarked. I’m proud of it. Move your truck, please.” She shrugged, as though I were a small annoyance. She turned away without saying anything more. “I’ll tell my husband,” she remarked. With a knot of frustration swelling in my chest, I stood there and watched her depart. I’ve always made an effort to get along with people and been courteous. However, this was excessive. In the hopes that it would be a one-time event, I went back inside. The truck returned the following day. Not even the previous tire marks had had time to disappear. I was filled with rage. Determined to be more forceful this time, I knocked on their door. The spouse spoke up, a big man with a frown on his face all the time.“Your truck is on my lawn again,” I remarked, attempting to control the trembling in my voice. Clearly irritated, he cast a low glance at me. Gruffly, “We’ll park where we need to,” he remarked. “You don’t own a car and you’re alone. What impact does it have?” I was astounded by his harshness when I looked at him. “It matters to me,” I shot back, my voice trembling with rage. “This is my property, and you have no right to use it.” With a grunt, he closed the door in my direction. I made up my mind when I laid in bed that evening. No way would I tell Tom. He was overburdened with work. But like Harold would have desired, I would figure out a method to keep my lawn safe.The following day, I was searching the garage for a little rake when I noticed an ancient, dusty canister hidden up high. That canister had escaped my mind for years. It was Harold’s, crammed with miscellaneous bits and pieces from his several endeavors. Feeling its weight in my hands, I pulled it down and lifted the lid. I discovered numerous tiny, pointy tacks inside. Harold’s deft hands were practically visible as he carefully sorted them and put them in that canister for a project he never got around to finishing. I was holding one between my fingers when it occurred to me to have an idea. Those tacks were nearly invisible, particularly when dispersed across the surface. I would give those obnoxious neighbors quite the surprise if I scattered them where the vehicle kept parking. I waited until everything was silent and dark that evening. I discreetly left the home, carrying the canister beneath my arm. The faint rustle of leaves was the only sound as the cool night air caressed my skin. I was nervous and determined at the same time as I evenly distributed the tacks across the spot where the truck was usually parked. The tiny tips blended in with the grass as they glinted softly in the moonlight. It was flawless.With a swift finish, I slid back inside, my heart pounding. Even though I knew it wasn’t the most sensible course of action, I wasn’t going to let them destroy my grass without a fight.I heard it the next morning while making myself a cup of tea in the kitchen: the piercing hiss of air escaping from tires. With a thumping heart, I put down my cup and walked to the window. The large, gleaming truck belonging to the neighbor was there, resting on four flat tires. My face broke into a smile that I couldn’t stop. It had been successful. The man was standing next to the truck, looking at the flat tires as though he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, his countenance a mix of bewilderment and rage. When he realized what had happened, he became even more enraged and kicked one of the tires. He then turned and looked at my house. As I moved away from the window, my heartbeat became faster. He was banging on my door in no time, each time louder and more enraged than the last.I opened the door, and he said, “You did this, didn’t you, you old hag!” His hands were balled up, his face flushed. “You’re gonna pay for this!” Despite a slight quiver in my palms, I maintained a steady speech. “You parked on my lawn,” I sternly remarked. “You disregarded me when I asked you to stop. I own this. “You had no right!” he exclaimed, advancing and becoming increasingly irate. “You’ll regret this!”However, I was prepared. Like Harold would have done, I had called the police as soon as I heard the tires hiss. The man was furious, and I held my position as the tension in the room increased. However, I suddenly heard sirens in the distance. The police showed quite swiftly, with two policemen getting out of their vehicle and heading over to the situation. The man turned to face them, pointing at me with a boiling-hot temper. “This was done by her! My automobile was wrecked by her.” He was interrupted by the officer raising a hand. He turned to face me and said, “Ma’am, can you explain what happened?”I explained everything to them, including my decision to defend my property when they denied my request that they quit parking on my grass. As I spoke, the officers listened and nodded, glancing between the man, me, and the flat tires.A moment later, one of the cops approached the truck and examined the tire marks and the remaining tacks that were strewn all over the place. The officer turned to face the man and stated, “It looks like you’ve been parking on her lawn.” “That is intruding.” She also had every right to defend her property, given what we can see here.” The officer went on, and the man’s face sank. “You’re going to face charges related to property damage, trespassing, and harassment. I advise you to avoid her lawn going forward.The man stammered, but he was aware that he was out. He was given a ticket by the authorities, and I observed him give up, looking disheartened. It didn’t matter that I could still see the resentment brewing in his eyes. He was never going to park on my yard again.The neighbors kept their distance after that day. They avoided looking at me anytime they saw me, and their truck never touched my lawn again. It would take some time for my grass to recover, but I had no doubt that it would. All of this didn’t need to be disclosed to Tom. I felt quite satisfied with myself because I had managed it on my own.I sipped my tea on my patio as the sun sank later that day. The lawn was softly lit by the warm glow, and I felt at ease. I had defended my house, my dignity, and the memories Harold and I had made here.