10/15/2025
It had been a month since we'd moved into our new house by the woods. My boys loved it—fresh air, quiet streets, trees everywhere—and I pictured them growing up here. The first day, while they played, a woman from down the street came to my door in a fit of rage. Apparently, our moving trucks were loud, our kids "squealed like mice," and we had "no shame."
I snapped; she sneered; I told her to leave. That should have been the end of it, but the next evening someone spray-painted GET OUT across our façade. She laughed when I confronted her, opened the door to let her dog loose, and my children ran screaming. I installed a security camera the same night.
A few mornings later, the yard was swarming with raccoons and a moose—terrifying. While rewinding the footage, I saw a masked figure toss bait over the fence. When I called Steve (my husband) abroad, he told me not to escalate; I felt alone and furious.
I tried for a truce. I brought pie to her door, sat and listened as she pretended to have remorse—then my baby monitor screamed: "Mom! Mice! There are so many!" I ran home to find dozens of mice flooding the kitchen. Later I learned she'd paid a teen to release them through a vent.
That was the last straw. I hired a lawyer, filed complaints, and we prepared evidence. With papers spread across the dining table, I felt a grim satisfaction—until a thunderous crash shook the block. Smoke and dust rose where her house stood.
My lawyer and I RUSHED TO HER HOUSE. ⬇️
