Our neighbor, Mr. Streeter, had a habit that rubbed me the wrong way from the start. When pulling into his driveway, he often cut across the edge of our lawn. Not because he needed to, but because it saved him a few seconds.
At first, it seemed minor. Grass grows back. Snow melts. I didn’t want to start a neighbor dispute over something small.
But then one afternoon, Nick came inside gripping his gloves so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes were shiny, not from tears yet, but from holding them back.
“Mom,” he said quietly. “He did it again.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
“He ran over Oliver,” Nick added. “He looked at him first. Then he still drove over him.”
That detail landed hard. This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice.
I hugged Nick while staring out the window at the broken sticks and scarf lying in the snow. It felt like proof of something uglier than a simple misunderstanding.
Asking Nicely Didn’t Work
The next evening, I saw Mr. Streeter outside and decided to speak up calmly.
“Could you please stop driving over that part of the yard?” I asked. “My son builds snowmen there, and it really upsets him.”
He glanced at the crushed remains and shrugged.
“It’s just snow,” he said. “Tell your kid not to build where cars go.”
I reminded him that it wasn’t a road. It was our lawn.
“Kids cry,” he said dismissively. “They get over it.”
And with that, he walked away.
It didn’t stop.
Nick rebuilt. Mr. Streeter flattened the snowmen again. And again. Some days Nick cried openly. Other days he grew quiet, staring out the window with that tense expression children wear when they’re trying to be stronger than they should have to be.
I suggested compromises, because that’s what adults often do when we’re tired.
“Maybe you could build closer to the house,” I offered gently.
Nick shook his head right away. “That’s my spot. He’s the one doing something wrong.”
He was right, and hearing it from a child made it impossible to ignore.
