I marched outside, the offending baseball clutched in my hand like a grenade. Baron Bigshot was in his driveway, polishing his luxury car with the care most people reserve for newborns.
“Hey!” I shouted, storming up to him. “Your son’s baseball just came through my window. It nearly hit my daughter!”
He barely glanced up. “Oh? And you’re sure it was my son’s ball?”
I thrust the blueberry pie-lathered ball in his face. “Unless baseballs are falling from the sky now, yes, I’m pretty sure.”
He sighed like I was some peasant interrupting his important car-polishing duties. “Look, Ms…”
“Angela. We’ve been neighbors for three years.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Right, right. Angela. Do you have any proof it was my Billy’s ball?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Proof? There’s pie filling on it!”
“Ah,” he nodded sagely, “so you admit you tampered with the evidence.”
I felt my eye start to twitch. “Listen here, Baron Big—”
“I beg your pardon?”
I took a deep breath. “Mr. Worthington. Your son broke my window. He could have seriously hurt my daughter. The least you could do is pay for the repairs.”
He chuckled, actually chuckled! “My dear, do you know how much that would cost?”
“Probably less than one of your car’s tires,” I muttered.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t appreciate your tone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a birthday party to prepare for. Important guests are coming, you understand. Out of my property!”
He said that. Yep! No apology. No NOTHIN’.
As he turned away, something in me snapped. “Oh, I understand perfectly. I understand that you care more about your fancy party than the safety of your neighbors!”
He spun around, his face red. “Now see here—”
But I was on a roll. “No, you see here! Your son has been terrorizing this neighborhood for months. We’ve all been too polite to say anything, but enough is enough. You need to take responsibility!”
“I suggest you leave now before I call the police for trespassing.”
Defeated and furious, I trudged back home, the sound of his expensive sprinkler system mocking me with every step.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of cleaning up glass and comforting a still-shaken Penny.
As evening fell, the sounds of Baron Bigshot’s party drifted over. Laughter, clinking glasses, and what I was pretty sure was a live band.
I was just about to close the curtains (what was left of them anyway) when I saw something odd. A group of young men in masks, all wearing football jerseys, was marching up Baron Bigshot’s perfectly manicured lawn.
“What in the world?” I murmured, pressing my nose against the wooden window sill divider.
Suddenly, they all raised their arms, each holding a football. And then, in perfect synchronization, they let loose.
Footballs rained down on Baron Bigshot’s party like a sports equipment hailstorm. I watched, mouth agape, as chaos erupted.
Guests screamed and ducked, champagne flutes shattered, and Baron Bigshot himself stood in the middle of it all, looking like a man who’d just seen his worst nightmare come to life.
As quickly as it started, it was over. The football players high-fived each other and jogged away, leaving destruction in their wake.
I was still trying to process what I’d seen when there was a knock at my door. It was Mrs. Stewart, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
“Did you see that?” she asked, barely containing her glee.
I nodded, still stunned. “What… how…”
She winked. “Let’s just say my nephew’s football team owed me a favor. Thought our dear neighbor could use a taste of his own medicine.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, tears streaming down my face. “Mrs. Stewart, you’re a genius!”
She patted my arm. “Sometimes, dear, karma needs a little push.”
The next morning, I was enjoying my coffee when there was a furious pounding at my door. I opened it to find Baron Bigshot, looking decidedly less baronial in his rumpled pajamas.
“YOU!” he sputtered, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You did this!”
I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the moment. “Did what?”
“Don’t play dumb! The football attack! It ruined everything!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And do you have any proof it was me?”
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, clearly recognizing his own words being thrown back at him.
I leaned against the doorframe, feeling surprisingly calm. “You know, Mr. Worthington, sometimes life has a funny way of teaching us lessons. Maybe this is yours.”
His face turned an impressive shade of purple. “This isn’t over!”
As he stormed off, I called after him, “Oh, and Mr. Worthington? You might want to consider investing in some wooden planks for your windows. I hear they’re all the rage these days.”
I closed the door, grinning to myself. Penny looked up from her coloring book, curiosity shining in her eyes.
“Mommy, why was that man yelling?”
I scooped her up, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, sweetie. He just learned a very important lesson about being a good neighbor.”
Well, folks, there you have it. Karma works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it? Sometimes it’s swift, sometimes it takes its sweet time, and sometimes it needs a little nudge from a well-meaning neighbor with connections to a high school football team!
So, tell me, have you ever had a neighbor from hell? A Baron Bigshot of your own? Drop your stories in the comments. After all, misery loves company, and nothing brings people together quite like tales of nightmare neighbors!
My Stepmom Gifted Me a Funerary Urn for My 17th Birthday
I always knew my stepmom, Monica, wasn’t exactly the nicest person—annoying, yes, but not evil. She was the type who would talk over me, forget my birthday, and call me “kiddo” even though I was practically an adult.
But what she did on my 17th birthday? It was the final straw.
It all started after my mom, Sarah, passed away when I was ten. After that, it was just me and Dad. We were a team—movie nights, pizza dinners, and a mutual understanding that we had each other’s backs, always.
Then Monica came along about three years ago. She wasn’t the worst, just kind of… there. She moved in, slowly took over the bathroom with her endless beauty products, and managed to inch her way into Dad’s life, whether I liked it or not.
Monica had dreams—big dreams—of opening a hair salon. I didn’t have a problem with people having dreams, but I had my own, too, and she treated me like I was an inconvenience that came with the house.
But I had a plan. College was my way out, and Dad had promised me from the time I was little that there was a college fund waiting for me. “Your mom and I set it up when you were five, Lila,” he’d say. “It’s all there, and I add to it every year.”
So, I worked hard in school, counting down the days until I could leave for college and start a life of my own.
On the morning of my 17th birthday, I wasn’t expecting much. Maybe some pancakes, a card—Dad was at work, so it was just Monica and me. But when Monica handed me a gift bag, things took a weird turn.
Inside the bag was a pink funerary urn. Yes, you read that right. An urn.
I stared at it, completely confused. “What the hell is this?” I asked.
Monica leaned against the kitchen counter, a smug look on her face. “It’s symbolic,” she said as if that explained anything.
“Symbolic of what?” I asked, already feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Monica smiled wider. “It’s time to bury your college dreams, kiddo. Your dad and I decided to put that fund to better use.”
“Better use?” I repeated, my heart racing.
“Yep. We used it to help me open my salon. College is a gamble, Lila. But a business? That’s a real investment.”
I was frozen. Had they really taken my future, my college fund, and sunk it into Monica’s dream? How could my dad have let this happen?
“Life’s full of disappointments,” she added, as if that was supposed to be comforting.
I ran upstairs and slammed my door, sobbing harder than I ever had. Everything I’d worked for, everything my mom had wanted for me, was gone.
For the next few days, I barely spoke to either of them. Monica pranced around like she owned the house while I sat with the urn on my desk, a twisted reminder of what I had lost.
Then, a few days later, something strange happened.
When I got home from school, there was a note on my desk in Monica’s messy handwriting: Meet me at the salon at 6 P.M. tonight. No questions. Just trust me.
I almost laughed. Trust her? After what she did?
But my curiosity got the better of me, and against my better judgment, I went.
When I arrived at the salon, the lights were off, but the door was unlocked. Hesitant, I stepped inside. There, in the middle of the room, were Monica and my dad, both grinning.
“Surprise!” Monica shouted.
I was speechless.
“Look,” Monica said, stepping aside to reveal a shiny new sign on the wall: Dream Cuts: A Scholarship Fund in Honor of Sarah.
“What is this?” I asked, completely lost.
Monica’s smile softened. “We didn’t use your college fund, Lila. It’s all still there. The salon isn’t just for me—it’s for you, too. And for others like you. A portion of the profits will go toward funding scholarships in your mom’s name.”
I blinked, feeling like the ground was shifting beneath my feet.
“But… why make me think otherwise?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around it.
Monica winced. “Yeah, the urn thing… That was not my best idea. I thought it would be motivational, like burying the past and embracing the future. Turns out, it was just creepy.”
Dad stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve been planning this for months. Your mom always wanted to help kids get to college. This way, her dream lives on.”
I stood there, stunned, my anger melting into something softer.
Monica looked at me earnestly. “I’m not trying to replace your mom, Lila. I just want to build something meaningful, something that helps you and others. I know I haven’t been the best stepmom, but I hope this can be a fresh start.”
For the first time in a long time, I smiled.
It wasn’t perfect, and maybe things with Monica never would be. But in that moment, standing in a salon named for my mom, I realized she wasn’t trying to destroy my future—she was trying to honor it in a way I hadn’t expected.
And yeah, I kept the urn. I planted peace lilies in it. Maybe it wasn’t the symbol Monica had intended, but it had become something new. A symbol of hope.
What would you have done in my shoes?
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