After my divorce, I wasn’t looking for a new life—I was rebuilding the old one from scratch.

I bought a modest house tucked into a sleepy cul-de-sac in a new state. It had a white porch swing and a sun-faded mailbox, but the lawn… that was mine to love. My tiny plot of land became my therapy, my church, my battlefield of hope. I planted my late grandmother’s rose cuttings and surrounded the walkway with flickering solar lights. Saturday mornings, I mowed religiously with a secondhand mower I named “Benny,” sipping sweet tea on the porch steps like it was sacred ritual.

I was 30, heart-bruised, and desperately searching for peace in petunias and routine.

And then, like a rhinestoned hurricane, Sabrina blew in.

She lived at the far end of the loop, but you could hear her heels click halfway down the street. Always in stilettos. Always in lipstick. Always talking to someone on Bluetooth like she ran the world. Her Lexus was immaculate, her hair big, her presence… loud.

I didn’t think much of her—until the day tire tracks sliced straight through my lawn like a knife through sponge cake. I assumed it was a mistake. Maybe a delivery guy had taken the curve too wide.

But the next week, it happened again.