Some people learn best when you explain things calmly and clearly. Others nod, apologize, and then keep doing exactly what they were doing before. My neighbor belonged firmly to the second category. After six months of patience, politeness, and mounting frustration, I decided it was time he learned his lesson the hard way.
The first thing I do every morning is make coffee. Not because I am addicted to caffeine, though that is certainly part of it, but because the quiet ritual grounds me. I grind the beans, wait for the kettle to whistle, and stand at the kitchen window while the mug warms my hands. The second thing I do, without fail, is glance out that same window toward my driveway.
For half a year, that glance has been followed by the same sinking feeling.
A silver hatchback was parked squarely in front of my garage door.
Every. Single. Time.
Six months ago, my mornings had been peaceful and predictable. I would sip my coffee, grab my bag, back out of my garage, and head to work with just enough time to stop for a breakfast sandwich. Now my mornings began with a sharp exhale, a muttered complaint to no one in particular, and a walk next door to knock on my neighbor’s door like a debt collector.
Six months of apologies.
Six months of excuses.
Six months of being late.
It all started when my neighbor’s son moved back home.
My name is Lila Hartman. I am 32, single, and until recently, very content with my life. I work as a graphic designer for a marketing firm downtown, a job I earned through years of late nights, coffee-fueled deadlines, and stubborn determination. I make good money, enough to own a small house on a quiet street bordering a wooded preserve. It is not fancy, but it is mine, and every inch of it reflects exactly who I am.
Teal accent walls.
Vintage film posters in mismatched frames.
An unapologetic collection of houseplants that may or may not be competing for space.
I had been unlucky in love, but I had stopped seeing that as a failure. My relationships followed a predictable pattern: intense beginnings, subtle warning signs I ignored, and endings that left me changing passwords and questioning my judgment. The last one, a man named Julian, ended things by claiming he “needed space,” space he promptly found in my best friend’s guest room.
That was my breaking point. I decided romance could wait. I poured myself into my career, my home, and a long-term plan to reward myself with a solo trip to New Zealand the following year. For the first time in a long while, my life felt balanced.
Then the car appeared.
The very first morning it happened, I assumed it was a mistake. I knocked on the door next door, polite but slightly annoyed, and waited. A tall, rumpled man answered, his hair sticking up in every direction and his eyes bleary with sleep.
“Oh—hi,” he said. “Sorry, am I blocking you?”
“Yes,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just a bit.”
He apologized profusely, scrambled for his keys, and moved the car within minutes. No big deal.
The second morning, it happened again.
By the third, I realized this was not accidental.
The man’s name was Rowan Pierce. Twenty-eight years old, according to neighborhood gossip, and recently returned to his parents’ house after losing his job at a tech startup. Mrs. Henley, who lived three doors down and seemed to have a direct line to everyone’s business, provided the details with thinly veiled satisfaction. Apparently, Rowan was “finding himself” and “helping his parents out.”
If his self-discovery had not been blocking my garage, I might have felt sorry for him.
Every morning followed the same script. I would knock. Rowan would answer in pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt. He would apologize, rub his face, promise it would not happen again, and shuffle off to move the car.
And every morning after that, the car would be back.
One evening, after a particularly bad day at work that included a missed deadline and a passive-aggressive email from my supervisor, I spotted Rowan in his driveway washing his father’s car. I marched over before I could talk myself out of it.
“We need to talk about the parking situation,” I said.
He turned off the hose, water dripping onto the pavement. “I know. I’m really sorry about this morning.”
“And yesterday morning,” I added. “And the one before that.”
He sighed, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t have a lot of options. My dad uses the garage, and by the time I get home from work, the street’s full.”
“You get home late?” I asked, surprised.
“Night shift. Security at the old mill,” he said. “If I park farther down, I have to walk back through the woods.”
“The woods?” I repeated. “You’re blocking my garage because you’re afraid of the woods?”
“There are raccoons,” he said seriously.
I stared at him. “That is not my problem.”
He shrugged. “I’ll try to do better.”
“You’ve been saying that for months,” I snapped. “Next time it happens, there will be consequences.”
He laughed under his breath. “What, you’re going to tow me?”
“Worse,” I said, and walked away.
That night, lying in bed, I realized something important. Asking nicely was not working. Reasoning was not working. Warnings were not working.
So I stopped being nice.
I spent an hour researching local wildlife. It turns out the wooded preserve behind our street was home to all sorts of creatures: raccoons, possums, birds, and even the occasional deer. They usually kept their distance from houses unless tempted.
The next day, I stopped by a pet supply store and bought a massive bag of wild birdseed and a small bottle labeled “Animal Training Attractant.” The cashier eyed me skeptically.
“New pet?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I replied.
That night, dressed in dark clothes and feeling slightly ridiculous, I slipped outside once the street was quiet. Rowan’s silver hatchback sat smugly in front of my garage. I scattered birdseed generously over the hood, roof, and trunk. Then I dabbed the attractant onto the door handles, mirrors, and wheel wells.
The smell was atrocious.
I went to bed feeling equal parts nervous and satisfied.
I did not need my alarm the next morning. I woke to shouting.
I peeked through the blinds and nearly choked on my laughter. Rowan stood in his driveway with his hands on his head, staring at his car in horror. The windshield was streaked with bird droppings. The paint bore tiny scratches. A raccoon sat proudly on the roof, chewing contentedly.
“Get off!” Rowan shouted, waving his arms. The raccoon did not care.
I stepped onto my porch, wrapped in my robe. “Car trouble?” I called sweetly.
He turned toward me, eyes wide. “Did you do this?”
“What?” I said innocently. “Looks like nature just really likes your car.”
“This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Maybe it’s karma,” I suggested. “For blocking someone’s garage every morning.”
He stared at me, then unexpectedly laughed. “Okay. I deserved that.”
I blinked. “You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious,” he said. “But also impressed.”
He disappeared into his house and returned with cleaning supplies. To my surprise, he handed me a pair of gloves.
“Help me?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I owe you an apology,” he said quietly. “And an explanation.”
I crossed my arms. “Go on.”
He took a breath. “I didn’t park there because of the garage or the street. I parked there because I wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
I stared at him. “You made me late for work for six months because you wanted to flirt?”
“I know,” he said quickly. “It’s stupid. I’m bad at this. When I moved back, I noticed you. The flowers on your porch. The way you sing when you’re gardening. How do you help everyone? I just didn’t know how to start.”
“That’s the worst strategy I’ve ever heard,” I said.
“I know,” he admitted. “I figured you’d never give a guy like me a chance.”
“You could have just said hello,” I pointed out.
“I panicked,” he said. “Repeatedly.”
I studied him for a long moment. Then I sighed and took the gloves. “Fine. I’ll help you clean this mess. But after that, you’re buying me coffee.”
His smile was instant. “Deal.”
We spent the morning scrubbing, laughing, and talking. He told me about his parents, his job search, and his dream of opening a small café someday. I found myself enjoying his company far more than I expected.
True to his word, he never blocked my garage again.
These days, his car is usually in my driveway.
And honestly, I would not have it any other way.