It started with a note on our windshield.
Bright white paper. Black marker. Big, confident letters.
No name. No signature. Just a smiley face at the bottom, which somehow made it worse.
I stood in the driveway holding the note, rereading it like it might magically start making sense. My husband Jack came outside, coffee in hand, squinting at the paper.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Apparently,” I said slowly, “we’re criminals for owning two cars.”
We both laughed it off—until later that afternoon, when our neighbor came over herself.
She knocked like she expected applause.
I opened the door to find her standing ramrod straight, dressed like she’d stepped out of a suburban lifestyle catalog: pastel pink cardigan, matching headband, white capri pants, and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She didn’t bother with small talk.
“Our HOA—very friendly, but firm—has rules,” she said crisply. “Only one car per household in the driveway.”
I blinked. “One car?”
“Yes,” she replied, tightening her smile. “No exceptions. It keeps the neighborhood orderly.”
Jack stepped up beside me. “Both our cars fit in the driveway. We’re not blocking the sidewalk or parking on the street.”
She tilted her head, the way people do when they think they’re explaining something to a child. “Still not allowed. One house, one driveway, one car. The rule applies to everyone.”
Something about her tone made my jaw clench.
“Can you show us where that rule is written?” I asked.
