I’ve shared a house with my sister, Emma, for a decade, and in the corner of our yard sits the same old trampoline she bounced on as a kid. It’s faded and squeaky, but it’s part of our history.
A sunny afternoon not long ago, I was setting up the patio for a few friends. That’s when I noticed the new neighbors’ children—Sandra and John’s four—going wild on our trampoline. They’d moved in about a year earlier, and with the nice weather, the kids had practically lived outside for two weeks straight.
They’d asked if they could jump. I said yes, but only for a little while because guests were on the way. By seven, my friends started arriving, so I waved to the kids and called out, “Time to wrap it up! We’re kicking off a grown-ups’ night.”
One of the girls, Tia, gave me a heartbreaking pout. “But we’re having fun!”
“I know you are,” I said, keeping it light. “But three hours is plenty, and it’s adults’ turn now.”
Right then, Sandra stuck her head out a window. “Anastasia, can they stay a bit longer? They’re having the best time!”
I bit back a sigh. I’m no one’s live-in babysitter. I walked closer, kept my tone polite, and said, “Sorry, Sandra—guests are here and there’ll be drinks. It’s not really kid time.”
She didn’t look thrilled, but finally relented. “Fine. Kids, inside.”
We moved on with our evening—laughter, grilling, and a lot of “you need boundaries with those kids” jokes from my friends. I agreed: they’re sweet, but my yard isn’t a public park.
Then last week, Sandra took things from pushy to outrageous.
I came home with groceries to find her kids—and a cousin I’d never seen—back on the trampoline. “Hey!” I called, setting the bags down. “What are you all doing here?”
They barely glanced at me. “Mom said we could,” one of them tossed over a shoulder.
“Not today,” I said, firm. “You can’t come over whenever you feel like it. You need to head home.”
They kept bouncing. No eye contact, no pause. I was stunned. I went straight to Sandra’s door.
Her smile vanished when she saw my face. “Your kids are in my yard again,” I said. “I told them to leave and they’re ignoring me.”
She folded her arms. “They’re just kids. You never use that old thing anyway.”
“That isn’t the point,” I said evenly. “My yard, my rules. They don’t come over without permission.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You’re being ridiculous. Let them play.” With that, she turned and yelled for the kids to come in, muttering something about me being a Karen. I took my groceries inside and decided that was strike two.
Saturday morning at nine, I was jolted awake by squeals and giggles in the yard. I parted the curtains—and nearly lost it. The kids were back, breakfast bars in hand like they’d settled in for the morning, and John was literally picking the latch on the trampoline’s safety net. I’d put a small lock on it and chained the frame to stop the freeloading. Apparently, they took that as a challenge.
I threw on a robe and stormed out. “What do you think you’re doing?”
John flinched but didn’t stop. “Just letting them play,” he said, as if breaking and entering wasn’t happening in broad daylight.
“This is my property,” I snapped, voice shaking. “You do not get to tamper with locks or invite your kids over here. Off. Now.”
Sandra appeared on her porch with hands on hips. “What’s your problem? They’re kids.”
“My problem is you’re teaching them it’s okay to trespass and break into other people’s things.”
John finally straightened up, tools in hand. “We’re not hurting anyone.”
“Picking a lock on something you don’t own is not harmless,” I shot back.
Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “Keep harassing us and I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them you’re hitting our kids.”
I saw red. “Please do. I have video of your husband trying to defeat my lock. Want me to show it to the officers when they arrive?”
Sandra went pale. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” I said, folding my arms. “Get your kids and your husband off my property.”
She muttered under her breath, then retreated. They shuffled inside. I knew then that if I didn’t act decisively, this would never end.
So the next morning, right on schedule, the kids wandered over at nine again. This time, I had a plan. I’d hired a professional nanny—top-tier, CPR-certified, not cheap—and asked her to come by at nine sharp.
She arrived, walked straight to the trampoline, and said brightly, “Good morning! I’ll be supervising your playtime today.”
The kids looked confused, then shrugged and started bouncing—now actually supervised on my property. I took my tea to the porch and savored the peace.
Around noon, Sandra finally noticed. She marched over, bristling. “Who are you, and why are you in Anastasia’s yard?”
The nanny smiled pleasantly. “I’m the childcare provider hired to supervise your children while they play here.”
“A nanny?” Sandra sputtered. “Hired by Anastasia? She let them play for free before!”
“That’s no longer the arrangement,” the nanny said, unflustered. “Here’s the invoice for today’s services.” She handed Sandra a neatly itemized bill.
Sandra unfolded it and gasped. “You have got to be kidding!”
I stepped down from the porch. “Your kids have been trespassing. I’ve put a safe, legal system in place. If you want them to use my equipment, you pay for proper supervision. Otherwise, they can enjoy their own yard.”
“This is absurd!” Sandra shouted. “It’s a trampoline!”
“It’s my trampoline,” I said calmly. “And I decide who uses it and under what conditions.”
The nanny stayed professional. “If you refuse to pay, I’ll file in small claims court.”
Sandra turned crimson. She yanked the kids away, firing off, “This isn’t over!”
But it was. She tried posturing, tried arguing, tried refusing payment. After a few days, a couple of certified letters, and a gentle reminder about the video of her husband picking my lock, she settled the invoice rather than face court.
Since then, not one of those children has set foot in my garden. No early-morning squeals, no surprise “playdates,” no more lock-picking dad. Peace restored—and a crystal-clear boundary in place.
Lesson learned: when “they’re just kids” becomes code for “your property is my free daycare,” you don’t negotiate your peace. You enforce it.