I didn’t shout. I didn’t threaten. I documented. Every can, every bag, every filthy drift of trash pressed into my snow. I photographed the footprints leading from her gate to my trees. I wrote down dates, times, patterns. I’ve been here more than three decades; the man who owns her rental has been my friend just as long. When I sent him the file, I didn’t ask for revenge. I asked for respect.
He didn’t hesitate. The lease was month-to-month, the rules were clear, and her arrogance had left a paper trail she couldn’t laugh away. When the moving truck came, I watched from my window, not gloating, just steady. By Friday night, her windows were dark. Fresh snow fell, clean and undisturbed, soft over the roots I’ve guarded for years. I rolled out, filled the bird feeder, and listened to the quiet. I’m not fragile. I’m rooted. And I know exactly how to take out the trash.
