I’ve dealt with nasty neighbors before, but this one came with a camera crew, a fake smile, and the plumbing ethics of a raccoon. He turned my late grandma’s pristine garden into a biohazard zone by secretly redirecting his sewage to save money. My return gift to him had the whole town talking.
I’m Betty, 30, and I live in my late grandparents’ old cottage with its picket fence and my grandma’s beloved garden. As a remote designer, my home office overlooking those beautiful flower beds was where magic happened… until my neighbor from hell, Todd, moved in next door.
I still remember the day his moving truck blocked my driveway. He stood there, his gold chain glinting in the sun and designer sunglasses pushed into slicked-back hair. He barked orders at the movers while simultaneously talking loudly on his phone about “another successful flip.”
“Hey there!” I called, waving with the enthusiasm of a friendly neighbor.
“Welcome to Maple Lane! I’m Betty from next door.”
Todd lowered his phone, gave me a once-over, and flashed a smile glancing at his house. “Todd!
Just closed on this place for a steal. Gonna transform it into something actually worth looking at.”
I stared at the perfectly charming cottage he’d purchased. “It’s a beautiful home already.”
“If you’re into outdated everything,” he snorted.
“Don’t worry, my renovations will boost your property value too. You’re welcome in advance.”
His dog, some designer breed that looked visibly anxious, yapped incessantly as Todd returned to his call without so much as a goodbye. “Well,” I whispered to my garden as I retreated, “that’s going to be interesting!”
***
Fast forward a month, and “interesting” had become “insufferable.” The constant construction noise was bad enough, but Todd himself was worse.
Every interaction felt like a competition I never signed up for. I was pruning my beloved oak tree one afternoon when his shadow fell across my yard. “That tree’s gotta go,” he announced, hands on his hips like he was posing for his social media profile — which, as I’d recently discovered, was called “Todd the Modern Man.”
I nearly fell off my ladder.
“Excuse me?”
“Your tree. It’s blocking prime sunlight from hitting my new deck.” He gestured to the monstrous wooden platform he’d installed. “I need full sun exposure for my outdoor content.”
I climbed down, secateurs still in hand.
“This oak has been here for 70 years. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Look, BETTY,” he said my name like it was quaint and outdated, “I’m trying to elevate this neighborhood. That deck cost me twelve grand.
Your tree is literally shading my investment.”
“That’s generally what trees do, Todd. They provide shade.”
His jaw tightened. “I could have it declared a hazard.”
“It’s healthy as a horse and nowhere near your property line.”
“We’ll see about that.” He turned to leave but paused.
“Oh, and you might want to train your dog not to bark at mine. Some of us work from home, you know.”
I watched him swagger away, stunned by the audacity. “I don’t even have a dog,” I called after him.
“That’s your dog barking at squirrels all day!”
He waved without turning around. “Unbelievable,” I muttered to my oak tree. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
Then came the subtle shift in my garden’s aroma.
Not the usual earthy sweetness, but something… off. My boots started sinking into what should have been firm soil.
My tomatoes yellowed despite perfect care. The herbs wilted. And my grandmother’s roses, her pride and joy, the ones she’d tended for decades before passing them to me…
began to die. “No, no, no,” I whispered, kneeling beside them one morning, their once-vibrant petals now brown and drooping. “What’s happening to you, my poor babies?”
The smell became unmistakable.
It wasn’t compost or fertilizer, but it was something rancid and utterly wrong. I called a plumber that afternoon. “I think there might be a sewage leak in my garden,” I explained when he arrived, a middle-aged guy named Mike with kind eyes and a tool belt that had seen better days.
He followed me through the wilting garden, frowning deeper with each step. “Oh yeah, something’s definitely leaking here.” He pulled out his equipment and began investigating. An hour later, he called me over to a spot behind my shed.
“Found your problem!” he said, pointing to a green pipe partially hidden by mulch. “But here’s the weird thing… this pipe doesn’t connect to your house.”
I blinked.
“What do you mean? Where does it connect to?”
Mike ran a scope camera over the pipe, both of us watching the screen as it traveled. The image showed corners, joints, and finally emerged at a familiar-looking deck foundation.
“That’s…” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Your neighbor’s house,” Mike confirmed grimly. “Someone redirected part of their gray water and sewage to drain into your garden.
Pretty recent work too, judging by these fittings.”
My stomach lurched. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Money! Proper sewage hookup and maintenance costs thousands.
This way, he gets to flush without paying the full price.”
I thought about Todd’s endless renovations and his boasts about cutting corners to maximize profit. “Can you document this? Take pictures, write up a report…
everything?”
Mike nodded. “Already on it. You planning to confront him?”
I watched a drop of contaminated water seep into the soil where my grandmother’s roses were dying.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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