My name’s Lana, and I’m 30. I’m married to Derek, a man who treats spreadsheets like most people treat fine art. After 15 years of double shifts, saying no to trips, and yes to every overtime offer—we finally made it.
We bought our dream home.
It was everything we imagined. Ocean views, swaying palm trees, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep. The salty breeze, the golden sunsets—pure magic. Every morning on the deck felt like waking up inside a travel brochure.
But paradise? It had a catch.
She lived next door.
On Day 3, I was knee-deep in bubble wrap when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a woman with a gleaming smile, oversized designer sunglasses, and a dress that looked straight off a runway.
“Hi there! I’m Monica, your neighbor,” she chirped. “Just letting you know we’ll be setting up for a barbecue this Saturday. We usually use the whole yard and dock.”
I blinked. “You mean… your yard?”
She laughed like I was adorable. “No, both. It’s tradition here. We always share.”
I stayed polite. “Actually… we own this side of the duplex. The backyard and dock are part of our deed.”
Her smile faltered just a little. “That’s not how it’s worked before.”
“I understand. But we bought this place. The documents are clear. Still, if you ever want to use the yard—just ask.”
She tilted her head like she was studying me. “I don’t need permission. But… sure. We’ll talk.”
As she strutted off, I noticed a shirtless man on their porch glaring at us with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Derek walked in. “What just happened?”
“Our neighbor,” I muttered. “And we’re in for something.”
Saturday morning, I was sipping my coffee when a giant delivery truck pulled into our driveway.
“Delivery for Monica!” the driver shouted.
Before I could say a word, Monica appeared, waving him onto our lawn. “Set the bounce house up right next to the gazebo!”
I marched out. “Monica, what is this?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “It’s Kaylee’s birthday. Just a little party.”
“On our lawn?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be uptight—it’s for the kids. And stay inside today. It’s family only. Randy doesn’t like strangers around.”
I looked toward Randy—still shirtless, now fumbling with folding chairs.
I clenched my jaw. “We’ll let it happen this once. But next time? Ask first.”
She narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see.”
By noon, chaos had arrived. Music blaring, kids screaming, adults yelling over bass. Our private oasis had turned into a full-blown block party—with beer cans in our flower beds.
Then came a knock.
A drunk man stood on our back deck, shirtless, swaying, clutching a beer.
“Bathroom?” he slurred.
“Not here,” I said.
“Monica said yours,” he muttered, trying to push the door open.
“Absolutely not.” I blocked it with my foot.
Derek appeared behind me, arms crossed. “Leave. Now.”
Monica showed up, chewing gum like it was revenge. “What’s the big deal? He just needs to pee!”
“This isn’t a public bathroom, Monica. It’s our home.”
She sneered. “You two are so selfish. All this space and you won’t share?”
Derek stepped forward. “Last warning. Or we call the cops.”
Monica hissed, “You don’t deserve this place.”
I turned to Derek. “Call the contractor.”
“I already did,” he said. “Fence goes up Monday.”
That Monday, a white truck rolled up. The contractor stepped out with blueprints and coffee.
“Six-foot privacy fence here, expanded patio there, outdoor kitchen… sound good?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Monica came storming over. “What is this?!”
“Home improvement,” I smiled.
She scanned the clipboard. “A fence?”
“Yes,” Derek said calmly. “Permits approved. It’s happening.”
“You can’t just do this!”
“We can. And we did.”
She stormed off, yelling she’d call the police.
Twenty minutes later, two officers arrived. Monica was flailing her arms while Randy hovered behind her, shirtless as usual.
“Property line?” one officer asked.
Derek handed over our deed and permits.
“All checks out,” the officer said. “Fence is legal.”
“But it’s not fair!” Monica shrieked.
“Fair or not, it’s their property.”
Randy stepped forward and poked the officer in the chest.
Big mistake.
Seconds later, he was face-down on our driveway in handcuffs.
Monica screamed.
I turned to Derek. “We’re done being nice.”
The fence went up. Our patio was transformed into a private retreat. The music stopped. The shouting ceased. Monica’s family stayed quiet.
Then came the call.
“Hi, this is Greg, I own the other unit—you know, Monica’s? I live in Arizona and… I’m thinking of selling.”
I muted the call. “Monica’s landlord wants to sell.”
Derek grinned. “Tell him we’re in.”
Three weeks later, the sale closed.
I knocked on Monica’s door, deed in hand.
She opened it. “What now?”
“Just letting you know,” I said sweetly, “we’re your new landlords.”
Her face drained of color.
“You can’t be serious.”
“We are. Your lease ends in July. But if you’re out by next month? We’ll refund three months’ rent.”
She slammed the door.
No rent came. We filed eviction.
One week later, a silver sedan pulled up. A woman with kind eyes stepped out and knocked.
“I’m Darlene. Monica’s mother.”
She handed us banana bread.
“She’s moving out. I’ve found her a new place. Here’s the back rent.”
I blinked. “Wait… what?”
Darlene smiled. “Let’s all move on. Peacefully.”
One month later, Monica drove away in a moving truck.
She didn’t wave. But her mother did.
Derek turned to me. “So… what do we do with her unit?”
I smirked. “Rent it to someone quiet.”
He grinned. “Or keep it empty. Just to enjoy the silence.”
I raised my coffee mug. “To boundaries—and finally owning all of paradise.”
