She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t need to. I’ve lived here longer than you. I know the rules.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked away like she’d just issued a royal decree.
Jack and I stood there for a moment.
“Is she serious?” he asked.
“She has to be bluffing,” I said. “That can’t possibly be a real rule.”
We checked the HOA handbook that night. Cover to cover.
There was no such rule.
Not even close.
So we did what any rational people would do.
We ignored her.
For three peaceful days, nothing happened. Both cars stayed in our driveway. Life went on. We figured she’d realized she was wrong and quietly backed off.
Then, on the fourth morning, I opened the front door and felt my stomach drop.
Our driveway was empty.
Both cars were gone.
I didn’t even have time to process it before I saw her—standing on her lawn, arms crossed, grinning like she’d just won a prize.
I stormed over. “Where are our cars?”