When I opened the door, Mike was red-faced and yelling.
“Your trash bins smashed into my car,” he snapped. “There’s garbage everywhere!”
I stayed calm.
“Oh no,” I said. “Must’ve been the wind.”
His jaw dropped.
I stepped outside and pointed.
My bins were exactly where the town requires them to be — right near the road.
Right where his tires always cut across my lawn.
Only this time, I’d placed a heavy concrete planter behind them. Hidden by the snowbank.
He’d hit it full speed.
Scratches down the side of his car. A cracked headlight. Trash scattered across his driveway.
“I told you it wasn’t me before,” he said angrily.
I smiled.
“And I told you the plow probably did it.”
He stared at me, realization slowly setting in.
I leaned in just enough and said quietly,
“Keep your car off my lawn. And my trash stays upright.”
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t threaten.
He just cleaned up his mess in silence.
It never happened again.
Sometimes being a single mom doesn’t mean being weak.
It means you learn how to stand your ground —
and make sure people think twice before crossing it.