My Neighbor Poured Cement Over My Flower Garden Because the Bees Annoyed Him—He Never Expected Payback from the ‘Sweet Old Lady’ Next Door
As Hurricane Monica’s landfall loomed just seventeen minutes away, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the clock. The storm wasn’t the only force barreling toward me; she was coming too.
She wasn’t just popping by for a casual visit. No, she had an uncanny ability to invade every corner of my life—claiming my space, my time, and my very bedroom. It was as if the moment she crossed my doorstep, everything was hers. Every. Single. Time.
But what she didn’t realize? I had a few tricks up my sleeve.
My husband, Jake, peered through the blinds, his brow furrowing as I turned to face him. “They’re early,” he muttered, his tone reflecting the same irritation we both shared. Of course, they showed up ten minutes ahead of schedule—Monica never did have much regard for punctuality.
I took a deep breath, straightened my shirt, and flashed the kind of grin I wore when I was bracing for battle. “Ready for the storm?” I asked, though it was clear we weren’t just talking about the weather.
Jake’s expression matched mine perfectly as he squeezed my hand. “We’ve survived worse,” he said, though his voice held a trace of uncertainty.
Had we really?
I’d watched Monica barge into our house—our sanctuary—every time, for five long years. She’d march right into our bedroom like it was her own, throwing her bags onto our bed, scattering her things across the counters, and leaving behind a trail of those overpowering candles. The scent was so strong, it practically choked me, leaving me gasping for air.
I’ll never forget last Christmas. I opened a drawer to find my jewelry box completely empty. Gone. And what was Monica’s excuse? She “needed the space.” The nerve of her. Not once did she respect the boundaries I had so carefully established in our own home, and every time she left, the place was left in utter chaos.
Jake greeted his parents with the kind of enthusiasm he’d practiced for years when the doorbell rang. “Dad! Mom! It’s so great to see you!”
After planting a few air-kisses on Jake’s cheeks and sweeping into the room like she owned the place, Monica finally turned to face me, her eyes narrowing with that signature piercing glare. Behind her, her ever-polite husband, Frank, lugged their bags in silence, barely uttering a word.
Monica’s voice, as smooth as velvet but edged with authority, broke the tension. “It’s always lovely to see you two,” she said, her posture rigid as ever. “While we get settled, would you mind making some coffee? Traveling is just so exhausting, you know.”
Monica was halfway down the hall before I could even get a word out. I looked at Jake, who, despite knowing exactly what was about to unfold, didn’t have the courage to put a stop to it. When it came to his mother, he never did.
He called after her, his voice laced with what seemed like a hint of contrition. “Mom, this time, we have the guest room ready for you.”
Monica froze mid-step, shot him a quick glance, then flashed a smile so chilling it could have frozen time. “Oh, how lovely,” she purred. “But you do remember how uncomfortable those guest beds are for me, don’t you? You young folks will be just fine handling it.”
We both stood there, stunned, as she suddenly began marching straight toward our bedroom.
I had made countless attempts to set boundaries. At first, I gently hinted, “The guest room has a much better view.” When that didn’t work, I tried being more direct, saying, “We’d prefer to keep our room private.” But she always brushed me off with a dismissive laugh or a snide comment, making it clear my concerns didn’t matter.
But this time, I was done.
The night before, I had made one final attempt to draw the line. “We’ve prepared the guest room for you,” I told her firmly over the phone. “It’s quiet, comfortable, and clean. We won’t be sharing our bedroom.”
Her response? A patronizing, “We’ll see when we arrive.”
That was the moment I knew—I wasn’t going to let this slide. Never again.
The next morning, I greeted her with an innocent, almost too sweet smile. “Anything that makes you comfortable, of course.” But when I stepped into our bedroom later, I found her standing there, grinning like she’d won some victory. Her bags were carelessly thrown across our bed, and the sharp scent of her perfume mingled with the overpowering aroma of the candles she had lit.
With a single dismissive wave of her hand, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “The guest room gets too much morning sun. You young people would be better off adjusting. We’re staying here.”
I didn’t flinch. I simply nodded and smiled, “Of course.”
The tension in the air was palpable when Monica and Frank sat down to supper that night. She found something to complain about in every detail—the food I’d prepared, the wine I’d chosen, even the dishes themselves. But despite her constant verbal jabs, I kept my cool, flashing a smile that could freeze the room.
Jake kept shooting me confused glances, but I just squeezed his hand under the table, reassuring him without a word. He had no idea what was about to unfold.
After supper, as Monica and Frank retired to “their” bedroom, Jake and I quietly slipped into the guest room. He leaned in, his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s going on? Why are you so calm?”
I grinned mischievously as I slipped beneath the covers. “Let’s just say I made some preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” Jake asked, clearly intrigued.
I beckoned him closer, teasing him. “I’ll show you.”
With a barely contained laugh, I pulled out the lingerie, the discreetly hidden adult toys, and the carefully placed massage oils I’d stashed around the bathroom and the room. As I laid it all out, I could hardly hold back my amusement. When I revealed the items Monica had undoubtedly stumbled upon earlier, Jake’s eyes widened in horror.
“Oh my God,” Jake breathed out, looking as though he’d lost all color. “You didn’t!”
“I did,” I grinned. “And she saw everything.”
The following morning, precisely at 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen. She looked like she’d seen a ghost—her movements stiff, her lips tight, and her face drained of all color. I offered her a cup of coffee, but she didn’t even glance at it. We sat in tense silence for what felt like an eternity before she finally spoke, her words coming out with noticeable hesitation.
“We’ll… use the guest room. Please.”
I feigned innocence, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought you were such a fan of the master bedroom.”
Monica winced, her face flushing. “We had second thoughts.”
Jake nearly choked on his toast, stifling a laugh that threatened to escape. I flashed a sweet smile. “I recently changed the sheets in the guest room, you know—the one with that beautiful morning light. If you’d like, I can help you move your things.”
“No!” she blurted, her voice a little too sharp. “No, I’m fine. We can handle it.”
By the end of the day, Frank and Monica had quietly moved all their things into the guest room. With a glass of lemonade in hand, I sat on the porch, watching karma unfold with a sense of satisfaction.
Later that evening, Jake cornered me, his expression a mix of appalled disbelief and reluctant admiration. “All right, tell me exactly what you did,” he demanded.
I couldn’t help but smile. “Do you remember my downtown shopping trip?”
Jake’s eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” I said, grinning. “And I also ordered a few things from an online store with overnight delivery.”
When he finally saw what I’d done—turning the guest room into a provocative, carefully arranged display of… well, things—he couldn’t contain his laughter.
Monica had no idea what had hit her.
