The morning before Halloween, I opened my front door to find my car covered in egg yolks and toilet paper. “Mommy… is the car sick?” my three-year-old pointed and whispered. And just like that, the day began.
I’m Emily. I’m 36, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three very loud, very sticky, and incredible kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. Most mornings start before the sun’s up and end long after bedtime stories are whispered over sleepy yawns. This life isn‘t glamorous, but it’s ours. I didn’t ask for drama this Halloween. I just needed to park close enough to my house to carry a sleeping toddler and two bags of groceries without breaking my back.
But apparently, that was enough to trigger my neighbor, Derek, into full-blown holiday warfare. The eggs were just the beginning. Derek lives two doors down. He’s a man in his 40s with too much time and too many decorations. At first, I thought his displays were sweet—extravagant, maybe, but festive. Derek was the kind of guy who brought cheer to the block. But over the years, it stopped being fun. Now it feels like his house is auditioning for a movie every other month.
Christmas? He blasts music through outdoor speakers and uses fake snow machines like he’s recreating a Hallmark set. Valentine’s Day? The bushes are wrapped in red garlands. The Fourth of July is a literal explosion. And Halloween? Oh, that’s Derek’s Super Bowl. The kids love it, of course. Every October, they press their faces to the living room window to watch him set it up. “Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max shouts. “And the skellytons.” “Skeletons, baby,” I always correct him with a chuckle. Even Noah, my three-year-old, squeals when the fog machines kick in. And I’ll admit, there’s a strange kind of magic to it—if you’re not the one living next to it.
A few nights before Halloween, I got home from a long shift. I’d been on my feet for 12 hours. It was well after 9 p.m., the sky was black, my back ached, and my landlord’s maintenance truck was once again blocking our driveway. I sighed and pulled into the only open spot—right in front of Derek’s house. It wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t even unusual. I’d parked there plenty of times. My kids were half-asleep in their car seats, dressed in their pumpkin-printed pajamas. The thought of offloading everyone and everything only deepened my exhaustion.
“Mama, I’m cold,” Lily said, rubbing her eyes. “I know, sweet girl,” I said, unbuckling her gently. “We’ll be inside soon.” I slung Noah over my shoulder and reached for Max’s hand. Bags hung off my wrists. I was tired in that deep, bone-hollow way you can’t fix with sleep. I didn’t even look twice at where I parked. I just assumed that it would be okay. I just assumed that Derek would understand.
The next morning, I stood at the kitchen window, pouring cereal, when my stomach flipped. My car—my only car—was covered in eggs and toilet paper. And something in me, quiet and cold, snapped. Yolk dripped from the side mirrors in thick yellow streams. Toilet paper clung to the windshield like ghostly ribbons. The smell hit next—sharp and sour, sticky and wrong. I blinked at it, frozen. Then my eyes followed the trail—bits of broken eggshells scattered like breadcrumbs—leading directly from Derek’s driveway.
“Of course,” I muttered. I turned on my heel, told the kids to stay at the table, and marched outside. I didn’t bother changing out of my slippers. I banged on Derek’s door harder than I intended. He opened it wearing an orange hoodie. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of blinking skull lights.
“Derek,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “Did you seriously egg my car?” “Yeah,” he replied, like we were talking about trash day. “You parked right in front of my house, Emily. People can’t see the whole setup because of your stupid car.” “So… you egged my car because it blocked your juvenile decorations?” “You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he said with a shrug. “It’s Halloween. It’s all good fun. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Good fun? You couldn’t have knocked on my door? I have to be at work at 8 a.m., and now I get to scrape egg off my windshield?” “The neighbors come to see my decorations every year,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You blocked the graveyard. I worked hard on that one.” “I’m a single mom, Derek,” I said, my jaw clenched. “I carry diaper bags, toys, groceries. I parked there because it’s close. I’m not breaking any laws.” “Sweetheart,” Derek said, smiling slow and smug. “That’s really not my problem. You chose to have those kids. And maybe next time, you’ll choose to park somewhere else.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I nodded once. “Okay,” I said quietly. I turned and walked home. Lily and Max were standing at the window. “Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked. I took a deep breath. “No, honey. He just made a mistake. But Mommy is going to fix it.”
I didn’t scream or egg his house back. Instead, I grabbed my phone and took high-resolution photos of every inch of the damage—the yolk in the seals, the dried goop on the paint, the trail of shells from his yard. Then I called the police non-emergency line. A very kind officer arrived an hour later. He looked at the mess, then at Derek’s perfectly clear “graveyard,” and then at Derek himself, who was currently adjusting a plastic tombstone.
“Vandalism is vandalism, ma’am,” the officer said, scribbling in his notepad. He walked over to Derek. I watched from the porch as Derek’s smug smile evaporated. There was a lot of gesturing toward the car and then toward his house. Derek looked less like a master of horror and more like a middle-aged man who had just realized he’d messed with the wrong nurse.
After the police left, I didn’t stop. I called a professional mobile detailer. “I need an emergency cleaning and a full paint assessment,” I told him. “And I need a formal itemized estimate for the cost.” The total came to $500. I printed everything: photos, the police report, the statements from my neighbors, and the estimate. I drafted a short letter demanding payment for damages and slid it into an envelope. I pushed it under Derek’s door and emailed a copy to our neighborhood Homeowners Association Board.
Two days passed, and then came the knock. Derek stood on my porch, his jaw tight. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.” “You damaged my property,” I said, folding my arms. “The police know. The HOA knows. So, tell me, Derek, do you want to take it to court?” He paused and then silently handed me a folded detailing receipt. He’d paid the full amount.
That weekend, Derek showed up with a bucket and rags. “I paid the detailer,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes. “I thought maybe I could help clean the rest… before you take it downtown.” I opened the door halfway. The guilt was written all over his face. “Start with the mirrors. And the front tires are still a mess,” I said. He nodded and got to work.
Inside my house, things were peaceful. My kids were full of sugar and giggles. My car was clean. That holiday taught me more than I expected. You can’t control your neighbors, but you can control how you respond. I didn’t stoop to his level. I documented everything and protected what mattered—my peace and my home.
“Mom,” Max said the next day. “Are you mad at the skellyton man?” “Skeleton, baby,” I reminded him. “And no, I’m not mad. I’m proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly.” Justice looks like standing at your kitchen window, sipping coffee and watching someone else clean up the mess they made. I didn’t just hold my ground; I built something much stronger in its place.
