For the first time since pulling into the driveway, I smiled.
An idea had just popped into my head.
I waited patiently until Mrs. Whitmore turned around and disappeared back into her house.
Then I got to work.
The whole thing took less than a minute.
Afterward, I simply stepped back and waited.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Whitmore emerged onto her porch again, coffee cup in hand.
She glanced around casually.
Then she looked at her porch.
She froze.
Her expression changed in an instant, and her face turned a deep, furious red.
“What the hell did you do?!”
Mrs. Whitmore’s voice rang across the street.
I stood in my driveway, trying not to laugh as she pointed furiously at the pile of ruined decorations beside her front door.
“You destroyed our Halloween display,” I replied. “I thought you wanted all that junk gone. So I brought it somewhere you could enjoy it up close.”
“You can’t just dump garbage on my property!”
“Interesting,” I said, folding my arms. “That’s exactly what I was thinking yesterday.”
Her mouth fell open.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then she threatened to call the police and stormed back inside, slamming her door so hard that the wreath hanging from it shook.
Behind me, my eleven-year-old son, Ben, burst out laughing.
Even Toby, my seven-year-old, managed a little smile.
For the first time since we had arrived home and discovered our decorations destroyed, the heaviness in my chest began to lift.
I had wanted Mrs. Whitmore to feel embarrassed, even for a few minutes. After watching my boys’ faces fall when they saw what she had done, I thought she deserved a taste of her own medicine.
But that satisfaction didn’t last long.
Less than an hour later, my phone began buzzing nonstop.
Mrs. Whitmore had posted a photograph in our neighborhood Facebook group. The picture showed the pile of torn sheets, crushed milk jugs, and broken cardboard beside her front door.
Her caption read:
