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 whispered.
I’m Emily, 36, a full-time nurse and single mom to three kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. Most mornings start before the sun rises and end long after bedtime stories are whispered over sleepy yawns. I didn’t ask for drama this Halloween. I just wanted to park close enough to my house to carry a sleeping toddler and two grocery bags without breaking my back. Apparently, that was enough to trigger my neighbor Derek into full-blown holiday warfare.
Derek lives two doors down. At first, his extravagant decorations were charming—festive, even fun. But over the years, it stopped being fun. Now it feels like his house is auditioning for a movie set: snow machines blasting in winter, pink lights for Valentine’s Day, fireworks that rattle the windows every Fourth of July. And Halloween? That’s Derek’s Super Bowl.
A few nights before Halloween, I came home after a 12-hour shift and parked in front of Derek’s house because it was the only open spot. I had the kids half-asleep in their car seats, and the thought of unloading everything was exhausting. I assumed it would be okay.
The next morning, I poured cereal for the kids and froze at the sight of my car: egg yolks dripping, toilet paper tangled everywhere. Following the trail of shells, I realized it led straight from Derek’s driveway. I marched to his door in my slippers.
“Derek, did you egg my car?” I demanded.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You parked in front of my house. People can’t see my setup.”
“You could’ve knocked or left a note! I have to be at work at 8 a.m. and now I scrape egg off my windshield because of your decorations?” I shot back.
“That’s really not my problem. You chose to have those kids. Maybe next time, park somewhere else,” he said smugly.
I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said quietly, and walked home.
That night, after the kids slept, I documented everything—photos, videos, timestamps—and spoke with neighbors who witnessed Derek outside. The next morning, I filed a vandalism report with the police. Officer Bryant advised taking the car for a detailing estimate, which came to just over $500. I collected all proof and sent Derek a formal request for payment, with a copy to the HOA.
Two days later, Derek showed up with the receipt—he’d paid the detailer. Then he returned with rags and a bucket to help clean the car. My kids watched in awe as he scrubbed away the mess he’d made.
Later, we baked Halloween cupcakes and dipped apples in caramel, letting the kids decorate with candy eyes and black sugar spiders. That year, Halloween became a quiet celebration at home. Derek finished cleaning and left without fanfare. By nightfall, his decorations were still up, but quiet. And inside our house, peace had returned.
That holiday taught me more than I expected: you can’t control your neighbors, but you can control your response. Documenting, asking questions, and protecting what mattered—my kids, our home, and our peace—turned chaos into calm. Sometimes justice looks like standing at your kitchen window, sipping coffee, and watching someone else clean up the mess they made—while you remain strong, patient, and proud.
