When I got back from a two-week work trip, I expected to see my cheerful yellow house—painted by my late husband’s loving hands—shining like a sunflower on the corner lot.
Instead, I was greeted by… a cold, lifeless block of gray.
That was the moment my jaw dropped and my blood started to boil.
Hi, I’m Victoria. I’m 57, and generally, I like to think I’m a sweet lady. But if you mess with my home? Oh, I’ll fight like a mama bear.
Two years ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Davis moved into the house next door, they decided that my home was their business. From day one, they couldn’t keep their opinions about my yellow house to themselves.
The first time they saw it, Mr. Davis laughed and said, “Whoa! That’s the brightest house we’ve ever seen! Did you paint it yourself?”
I gave him a smile and replied, “Yup, me and a gallon of sunshine! What do you think—should I paint the mailbox next?”
But they didn’t take the hint. Every time Mr. Davis walked past, he had to throw in a jab.
“Bright enough for you, Victoria?!” he’d shout, elbowing his wife, who’d laugh like a hyena.
Mrs. Davis wasn’t any better. She’d give me this pitying little smile and say, “Have you ever thought about changing it? Maybe something more… neutral?”
Like my house was a clown costume at a black-tie event.
One afternoon, I was out planting petunias when Mrs. Davis came strutting up, her lips pursed tighter than a jar lid.
“That color is just an eyesore. It clashes with everything, Victoria! It’s gotta go. How about beige for a change?” she declared.
I raised an eyebrow. “Goodness, Mrs. Davis, is that what the commotion’s been about? I thought a UFO had landed, judging by the way people were looking. But it’s just a little paint!”
Her voice got sharp. “Just a little paint? It looks like a giant banana landed in our neighborhood! Think about your property value!”
I crossed my arms. “There’s no law against it. I like it yellow. It was my late husband’s favorite color.”
Her face went red like a warning light. “This isn’t over, Victoria!” she snapped, stomping back to her porch.
From then on, they pulled every stunt imaginable—calling the police, filing complaints with the city, even trying to sue me. All failed. The neighborhood sided with me.
“Those two actually thought we’d join their beige brigade!” laughed my neighbor, Mr. Thompson.
Mrs. Lee from across the street added, “Honey, around here we like bright houses and happy hearts, not funeral-parlor colors.”
I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong.
When I returned from my two-week trip, my bright yellow haven was gone. In its place was a depressing slab of gray. My hands were shaking as I stormed over to the Davises’ front door and pounded on it. No answer.
Mr. Thompson appeared, looking grim. “I saw the whole thing, Victoria. Got pictures. I tried calling you, but the call wouldn’t go through. I even called the police, but the painters had a valid work order.”
My stomach twisted. “A work order?!”
He nodded. “Apparently, the Davises claimed you hired them.”
“They forged my name?!”
“Looks like it,” he sighed. “They paid in cash, too. Claimed the house was theirs.”
I checked my home’s security footage. The Davises never stepped on my property—clever enough to avoid trespassing charges.
That’s when I noticed the paint job was sloppy—patches of yellow still showing through. As an interior designer, I knew they hadn’t scraped off the old paint. That was all I needed.
I marched straight to the painting company’s office. The manager, Gary, looked shocked as I slammed my ID and house documents onto his desk.
“You painted my house without my permission, and you botched the job!” I snapped.
Gary stammered, “We thought… it was your house…”
“It is my house! I DIDN’T hire you!”
When I demanded a copy of the work order, there it was—Mr. and Mrs. Davis’s names in bold.
“They told us they were the owners,” Gary admitted. “They declined the scraping service to save money, said they’d be away and wanted it done while they were gone.”
I glared at him. “And you didn’t check the ownership? Or talk to any neighbors?!”
He swallowed hard. “They seemed so convincing… even showed us pictures of your house.”
“You’re going to testify in court,” I told him. “And your workers will, too.”
When I sued the Davises, they counter-sued—claiming I owed them for the “improvement.” The nerve.
In court, the painting crew testified. My lawyer laid out the evidence: forged documents, property damage, and fraud.
The judge looked directly at the Davises. “You impersonated your neighbor, destroyed her property, and committed fraud. This is criminal.”
They were found guilty, sentenced to community service, and ordered to pay for a full repaint—back to its original yellow—plus court fees.
Outside the courthouse, Mrs. Davis hissed, “I hope you’re happy.”
I smiled sweetly. “I will be… when my house is YELLOW again.”
And it was. Brighter than ever.
Sometimes, revenge doesn’t need to be loud—it just needs to be the perfect shade of sunshine.