He didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said casually, like this was a mundane morning chore. “You parked in front of my house. People can’t see the full setup because of your stupid car.” “So… you egged my car because it blocked your decorations?” I asked, incredulous. “You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he shrugged. “It’s Halloween. Don’t be dramatic.” “Good fun? Did you really think that was good fun?” I countered. “You couldn’t have left a note? Knocked on my door? I have to be at work at eight a.m., and now I get to scrape eggs off my car because you wanted a better angle for your fog machine?” “The neighbors come to see my display every year,” Derek said, rolling his eyes. “Even your kids! Don’t deny it. I worked hard on the graveyard scene.”
“I’m a single mom, Derek,” I said, my voice firm. “Three kids, diaper bags, backpacks, groceries — I parked there for a reason. I didn’t break any laws.” “Sweetheart,” he said, smiling slow and smug. “That’s really not my problem. Maybe next time, park somewhere else.” I stared at him for a long moment and nodded once. “Okay.” “Okay?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Yes. That’s it.” I turned and walked home. The kids were at the window, watching silently.
“Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked. “No,” I said, smiling faintly. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.” Later that day, I stood in my kitchen, staring out the window. The eggs had dried into stubborn streaks, the toilet paper sagged like a surrender flag. I was too tired to cry, too wound up to sleep. Instead, I picked up my phone and began documenting everything. Photos, videos, timestamps — I recorded every detail of the vandalism: the yolk pooled near the tires, the toilet paper tangled on the mirrors, the broken shells across the driveway. I narrated everything in a calm voice, steadying myself as if I were preparing evidence for a serious investigation.
I spoke with neighbors, too. Marisol, from across the street, confirmed she saw Derek lurking outside late at night. Rob, next door, overheard him muttering about “view blockers.” With their statements, the photos, and a police report, I was ready. I filed a vandalism report and obtained an estimate for car detailing: $500. I printed everything — photos, receipts, police statements, neighbor affidavits — and wrote a clear, concise letter demanding reimbursement. I slipped it under Derek’s door and emailed the HOA a copy for good measure.
Two days later, a knock came at my door. Derek appeared, jaw tight, cheeks flushed. “This is ridiculous,” he said, but handed me a folded receipt — proof he had paid for the detailing. He returned later that weekend with a bucket, rags, and a quiet apology in his eyes. “I thought maybe I could help clean the rest,” he murmured. I directed him calmly, letting the kids watch from the window. Max and Lily giggled at the absurdity. “The skeleton man is washing our car?” Max whispered. “Yes,” I said. “He made it dirty, and he got caught.”
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