She threw her head back and laughed, a loud, cruel sound that cut across our apartment parking lot as neighbors watched, making my face burn with shame.
For weeks, she’d parked her big, fancy SUV in my assigned spot, number 17, as if it was her own. I’d tried polite notes, then friendly talks; nothing worked.
But now, seeing her mock me like that, a cold certainty settled in. I knew exactly how to make her pay for every bit of disrespect.
Her entitlement would meet an unexpected twist, involving a very specific blue painted spot and a big yellow tow truck, guaranteeing a kind of justice she would never forget.
Chapter 1: The Perennial Infringement
The Uninvited Guest
The morning light usually felt like a warm hug as it spilled into my home office, illuminating the digital canvas where I crafted logos and website layouts. My name is Alex, and my job as a freelance graphic designer meant my world often revolved around my Mac and a steady stream of caffeine. My husband, Mark, was already at his real estate office downtown, and our daughter, Maya, was at high school, likely navigating the perilous halls of teenage angst. So, it was just me, the quiet hum of my computer, and the constant, dull ache of a parking spot problem.
Our apartment complex, “The Willows,” was named for the majestic, ancient trees that bordered its southern edge. It was charming, mostly, with stucco buildings painted a calming shade of sage green. Each unit, a quaint two-bedroom, came with one assigned parking spot. Mine, number 17, was a prime piece of real estate, right outside my kitchen window. I could see it, clear as day, a comfort, a guarantee. Or so it used to be.
Then Brenda moved in. She was new to unit 19, just a few doors down, and she drove a monster of an SUV. A shiny, black behemoth that looked utterly out of place in our modest lot. My first few sightings of her parking in my spot were met with a shrug. Maybe a mistake, new to the complex, easy to get turned around. The markings were faded, sure, but the little “17” was still there, a ghost of white paint on the asphalt.
My car, a modest sedan, often looked like a toy next to her imposing vehicle when I finally found a guest spot. It started small. Once a week. Then twice. Then, it became almost daily. I’d finish a client call, ready to grab lunch, only to look out and see her hulking SUV already settled into my assigned space, mocking me from its perch. That comfort, that guarantee, it was eroding fast. It felt like a low-grade fever, always there, always annoying.