When Mark moved in, his lawnmower was louder than his manners. I tried honey and kindness, but he offered only scowls and silence. Then one morning, I found my beloved flower garden buried under fresh cement. No warning—just spite poured over everything I’d nurtured for years. That was the moment I realized kindness alone wouldn’t fix this neighbor.

He claimed the bees bothered him, but really, he just hated joy. I didn’t scream—I planned, slowly and carefully. I reported his illegal shed, watched city workers tear it down, and took him to court. My binder of photos and notes won me justice and his humiliation. He was ordered to replant every flower he destroyed, stem by stem.

Watching him sweat through the replanting under a court monitor’s watch was pure poetry. I didn’t lift a finger—just sipped lemonade on my porch and smiled. Then came the bees, in full force, thanks to help from a local beekeeping group. My garden buzzed back to life, louder and brighter than ever. Even the city gave me a grant to help build a proper pollinator haven.

The bees even started visiting Mark’s side, drawn to his uncovered trash. He swatted, cursed, and ran like a cartoon villain every single time. I just rocked in my chair, all innocence and quiet delight. Just a sweet old lady with flowers, honey, and a long memory. And if karma needed a hand, I was more than happy to lend one.