When my new neighbor, Claire, moved in six months ago, I thought she was just a normal person. You know, someone who’d mind her own business, be polite, and not cause any trouble.
She was in her 40s, lived with her 16-year-old son, Adam, and at first, she seemed fine—friendly, even. I lent her a ladder when she needed one, let her borrow our garden hose, and even allowed her to use our outdoor grill station when we weren’t home.
I didn’t think much of it. That’s just being neighborly, right?
Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
One weekend, my husband, David, and I decided to take the kids on a trip to visit my parents.
“We can have a little date night while your parents take over Grandma and Grandpa duty,” David said, tossing snacks into a bag for the two-hour drive.
I liked the idea. I had been feeling restless and just wanted a short break before everything started feeling too suffocating.
We were gone for two days.
And when we got back…
My God.
Our backyard looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Or worse—like a frat house had thrown the wildest barbecue party imaginable and then set off fireworks to top it all off.
Empty beer bottles littered the patio. My potted plants had been knocked over, some shattered. The kids’ toys were strewn everywhere, and grease stains covered the deck like battle scars. Our beautiful grill station, which we had spent so much time and money building, looked like it had barely survived an explosion.
I stood there, frozen, my eye twitching.
Deep breaths, Camilla, I told myself. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for this.
So, I marched next door and knocked. Claire answered the door, still in pajamas, her hair messy like she had just rolled out of bed. And she looked completely unbothered.
“Oh yeah,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand like it was nothing. “That was Adam’s birthday party. You know how kids are! It’s just what they do.”
I blinked. My brain was trying to process what I had just heard.
That’s just what kids do? Was she serious? Did she not see the disaster zone she had left behind?
“My backyard isn’t a public park, Claire,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You could’ve at least cleaned up.”
“Oh, don’t be so uptight, Camilla,” she said, shrugging. “It’s just a little mess. You’ll get over it. You and your husband can just use a hose, right? A little water and it’s good as new.”
I wanted to throw something.
Oh, I’ll get over it? Is that what she thought?
I stormed back inside, trying to figure out my next move. I could be reasonable… or I could make sure Claire paid for what she had done.
“What’s with that look?” David asked as I stomped into the kitchen. “Did you find out what happened?”
“It was Adam’s birthday party,” I muttered, grabbing a jar of biscuits. “And Claire thinks we should just ‘hose it down and get over it.’”
David raised an eyebrow, then laughed. “Isn’t Adam, like, sixteen?”
“Something like that,” I said, breaking a biscuit in half. “Oh, and by the way? There are beer bottles everywhere. So, underage drinking. That’s nice.”
David smirked. “Well, that’s leverage. You could definitely use that to make a point.”
I nodded, thinking. But it wasn’t just about Adam. It was Claire too. She needed to feel some of this frustration.
So, I decided to try being reasonable first.
I grabbed a notepad and wrote down three simple rules:
- If you use something, clean it and put it back.
- Respect my property.
- Clean up after your child.
The next morning, I walked over to Claire’s house and handed her the note. I expected a mature response. Maybe even an apology.
What I got instead was… well, something unbelievable.
The following day, I woke up to find a list of Claire’s rules taped to my front door.
It wasn’t a joke.
It was her rules.
For my property.
I nearly choked on my coffee as I read them:
Dear Neighbors!
To keep things fair and neighborly, I’ve put together some simple rules. Please follow these to avoid any issues:
- No grilling past 7 PM. The smell keeps me awake.
- No spicy seasonings when you cook. My son doesn’t like the smell.
- If I’m using the grill, please stay out of the yard. I don’t like people watching me cook.
- Notify me before grilling so I can schedule who uses it when.
- Your garden hose is for community use. I may need it for my car or my garden.
- Patio furniture is for everyone.
- When you mow your side of the lawn, do mine too. It looks better that way.
- Be patient if my son leaves trash in your yard. Kids will be kids.
- Sometimes I need extra parking space. I might use your driveway.
- If you have concerns, feel free to talk, but remember, I know what’s best for our community.
I read it again just to be sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.
This woman had officially lost her mind.
Then, my daughter Olivia came running up, phone in hand. “Mom, you need to see this.”
She showed me a video—Claire’s son, Adam, had been posting TikTok videos.
From OUR backyard.
In the clips, he and his friends were laughing, bragging about how they were using our space like it was their personal hangout. And they had filmed themselves trashing the place.
Oh. Oh, hell no.
I grabbed my phone, stormed into my backyard, and filmed everything—the mess, the beer bottles, the grease stains. I zoomed in on Claire’s ridiculous list of rules taped to my door.
And then I posted it.
Caption? Glad my neighbor and her kid enjoy my backyard more than I do! Check out the rules she gave me!
Three days later? 5 million views.
Comments flooded in:
Her rules?! For YOUR house?!
No way, build a fence ASAP.
Tell me you have an entitled neighbor without telling me.
Then a guy in the comments offered to build me a chain-link fence. By the end of the week? My backyard was sealed tighter than Fort Knox.
Claire noticed immediately.
She stormed over, banging on my door with a wooden spoon. “You’re breaking my rules!” she screeched.
I smiled sweetly. “What’s with the spoon? You baking something?”
Her eye twitched. “You’re breaking my rules, Camilla!”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, sipping my coffee. “I thought since we had different house rules, it was best to keep things separate.”
She fumed. But there was nothing she could do.
And then, two days later, there was another knock at the door.
Not Claire.
Adam.
“Ma’am… please,” he muttered. “Please… you’re ruining my life.”
I tilted my head. “Oh, that sounds rough, buddy.”
And that’s when Claire finally admitted it: I won.
Lesson learned the hard way.
