My name’s Tessa. I’m 39, recently divorced, and finally living in the little cottage I worked years to afford. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine — with a driveway that fits exactly one car. My car.
The neighbor, Vince, introduced himself on day one with the confidence of a man who’s never been told no. He had this massive truck that barely fit in his driveway, so of course, he decided to use mine.
“I’ll only be there when you’re not,” he said casually. “It’s just more convenient for me.”
I told him no. Firmly. Kindly. He nodded and smiled like I was joking.
The next day? His truck was parked there.
I left a note. He ignored it. I knocked on his door. He acted surprised.
“Didn’t think you’d mind, since you weren’t using it,” he said, as if my property rights were optional.
This went on for weeks. He blocked me in. Blocked deliveries. Even blocked a plumber from fixing my busted sink.
I told him if it happened again, I’d have the car towed. He laughed.
But then last weekend, I went out of town to visit my sister. I came back… and not only was his truck parked in my driveway — it was up on JACKS. He was using my space to work on it.
That was it.
I didn’t call the police. I didn’t leave another note.
The next morning, I called a local tow company and explained the situation. They said they needed proof it wasn’t authorized. Easy. I had every text and note I’d left Vince, and photos of my empty driveway in previous weeks.
I also called my lawyer friend, Sandra, just to make sure I was in the clear. She chuckled and said, “Not only can you tow it, but you should. And if he gets nasty, call me.”
So I did it. Bright and early, a tow truck rolled in. Vince’s truck — jacks and all — was gone within the hour. They even left a neat little sign on the curb that read, “Tow-Away Zone.”
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