On the morning before Halloween, I opened my front door and froze — my car was dripping with egg yolk, wrapped in toilet paper like some kind of cruel prank.
“Mommy, is the car sick?” my three-year-old asked, his little finger pointing toward the mess.
And just like that, my day began.
I’m Emily, thirty-six, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three wonderful, chaotic kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. My mornings start before sunrise and end well after bedtime stories. Life isn’t glamorous, but it’s ours. I wasn’t looking for trouble this Halloween. I just wanted to park close enough to carry a sleeping toddler and groceries without throwing my back out.
Apparently, that was enough to send my neighbor Derek into a meltdown.
The eggs, it turned out, were just the start.
Derek lives two doors down. He’s in his forties, single, and obsessed with holiday decorations. At first, I thought it was charming—his house decked out for every occasion, from Valentine’s Day to Christmas. But over time, it stopped being cute. Now, it’s like he’s auditioning for a neighborhood theme park.
Christmas brings snow machines and blaring carols. Valentine’s Day means pink floodlights. Independence Day? Our windows shake from fireworks. But Halloween? That’s his personal championship.
Every October, my kids crowd the window to watch him build his spooky empire. “Look, he’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max shouts. Even little Noah squeals when the fog machines hiss to life. It’s all fun—if you’re not living next door.
A few nights before Halloween, I got home after a twelve-hour shift. It was past nine, my back ached, and my landlord’s truck blocked my usual spot. So, I parked in front of Derek’s house. It wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t even unusual. My kids were half asleep in their pumpkin pajamas, and I just wanted to get everyone inside.
By morning, my car looked like it had survived a food fight. Yellow yolk streaked the sides. Toilet paper fluttered like ghostly ribbons. The smell was unbearable. Then I noticed the trail of eggshells leading straight from Derek’s driveway.
I stormed over, heart pounding. He opened the door before I could even knock twice, wearing an orange pumpkin hoodie and a smug grin.
“Derek,” I said, struggling to stay calm, “did you seriously egg my car?”
He didn’t even blink. “Yeah. You parked right in front of my house. People can’t see my decorations.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You vandalized my car because it blocked your decorations?”
“You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he said with a shrug. “It’s Halloween, lighten up. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I echoed. “You couldn’t have left a note? I have to be at work in an hour, and now I get to scrub eggs because you wanted people to see your fog machine?”
He rolled his eyes. “The neighbors love my displays. Even your kids stare out the window. And you parked right in front of the graveyard scene—I worked hard on that.”
“I’m a single mom,” I said, my voice tightening. “I park close because I have to juggle kids, groceries, and everything else. I’m not breaking any laws.”
He smirked. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. You made your choices. Maybe next time, choose a better parking spot.”
I looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”
He tilted his head. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s all.”
Then I turned and walked away.
Inside, Lily peered at me through the window. “Did the decoration man yell at you?”
“No,” I said with a smile. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.”
That night, after the kids were asleep, I sat by the window staring at my car. The toilet paper hung limp from the rain. The yolk had hardened into crusty streaks. I was too tired to cry, but not too tired to act.
I grabbed my phone and started documenting everything — photos from every angle, a video noting the date and time. It felt clinical, like I was treating a wound.
Then I walked across the street to my neighbor Marisol’s. She answered in slippers and a face mask, holding a mug of tea.
“You okay, honey?” she asked.
“I’m fine. But did you see anything weird last night?”
She glanced toward my car. “Yeah. Derek was out there around 11. I thought he was fixing those stupid lights. He’s obsessed.”
“Would you be willing to say that if someone asked?”
She nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”
Next, I asked Rob, who lives a few houses down. He confirmed he’d heard Derek muttering about “view blockers.” Then he warned me to clean the car quickly before the paint got damaged. I thanked him — and asked him to write a short statement.
The next morning, I filed a vandalism report with the police. Officer Bryant came by, calm and polite, took my statement, and even let Max hold his badge. I brought the car to a detailing shop — the estimate was $512.
I printed everything: photos, witness statements, the police report, and the repair quote. Then I typed up a short letter demanding payment and slid it under Derek’s door — and emailed a copy to the neighborhood HOA for good measure.
Two days later, there was a knock at my door. Derek stood there, red-faced and furious.
“This is ridiculous!” he barked. “It’s just Halloween!”
“You damaged my property,” I said evenly. “The police know. The HOA knows. Pay for the repairs, or I’ll take it to court.”
He glared, then handed me a folded detailing receipt — proof he’d paid in full.
That weekend, he showed up again, this time with a bucket, rags, and shame written all over his face.
“I thought I could help clean the rest before you take it in,” he muttered.
I opened the door halfway and considered him. “Start with the mirrors,” I said. “And the front tires are still a mess.”
He nodded and got to work.
From the window, my kids watched, wide-eyed.
“The skellyton man is washing our car!” Max said.
“Because he made it dirty,” Lily replied matter-of-factly.
“That’s right,” I said softly. “Bad choices always leave a mess. And someone always sees.”
That afternoon, we made caramel apples and Halloween cupcakes. The kids decorated them with candy eyes and gummy worms while giggling through sticky smiles.
“Are we giving these to trick-or-treaters?” Max asked.
“Nope,” I said, smiling. “This year, Halloween’s just for us.”
When Derek finished cleaning, he gave a stiff nod and walked away. His decorations stayed up, but the fog machines stayed off. The loud music didn’t play. The crowds didn’t come.
Inside my home, though, everything felt calm. My kids were laughing, my car was clean, and I finally felt at peace.
That Halloween taught me something important: you can’t control your neighbors, but you can control how you respond. You don’t need to shout to stand your ground — sometimes, quiet action speaks louder.
The next day, as we packed away Halloween crafts, Max asked, “Mom, are you mad at the skellyton man?”
“Skeleton, baby,” I corrected gently. “And no, I’m not mad. I’m proud.”
“Proud of what?” Lily asked.
“Proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly,” I said. “And proud that I handled it without becoming someone I’m not.”
They nodded like they understood.
Justice, I realized, isn’t about revenge. It’s about peace — standing at your window, coffee in hand, watching the person who wronged you clean up their own mess. And knowing, deep down, that you didn’t just get even — you rose above it.