When my snobby neighbor’s son smashed a baseball through my window, I expected an apology and some help with the repair. Instead, they refused to take responsibility and even threatened me. But, oh, karma had a far more satisfying plan in store!
Picture this: you’ve just prepared a beautiful meal, the table is set, everything is perfect. Suddenly—BAM! A baseball crashes through your window, sending glass flying everywhere and landing right in the middle of your dessert. Worse, my little girl was only inches away from getting hit. Scary, right? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me.
I’m Angela, a 36-year-old single mom to my six-year-old daughter, Penny, and proud pet mom to Pancy the poodle and Bella the cat. We live in a cozy cottage at the end of Maple Street, a charming slice of suburban life. It’s pretty much a picture-perfect setting… except for the nightmare that lives next door.
Let me introduce you to Baron Bigshot. Okay, that’s not his real name, but it suits him perfectly. He’s the kind of guy who struts around like he owns the world, always in some expensive suit, with a watch that probably costs more than my annual salary. Now, I’m not one to judge people by their wealth, but when your neighbor’s arrogance starts messing with your peace, something’s gotta give.
It all started one Saturday morning. “Mom, can I play outside?” Penny asked, her big eyes filled with hope. I glanced out the window and sighed. “Sorry, sweetie. Mr. Next Door’s son is playing baseball again.” Her face fell. “But why can’t I play in our yard?” How do you explain to a six-year-old that our yard had become a danger zone, thanks to the wild pitches of a teenager who thinks he’s the next big baseball star?
A few months ago, Baron Bigshot’s teenage son discovered baseball—and not in a good way. Since then, our quiet neighborhood turned into a war zone of flying baseballs. One hit poor Mrs. Franklin while she was gardening, and sweet old Mr. Johnson got knocked out while reading on his porch. One by one, neighbors started boarding up their windows, but I refused. Our front window was my pets’ favorite sunbathing spot, and I wasn’t about to take that away from them.
Then, the inevitable happened. As I was setting the table for lunch, Penny was coloring on the floor, and our pets were lazing by the window. Everything was peaceful until—CRASH! A baseball smashed through the window, narrowly missing Penny. I rushed over, scooping her up as glass scattered everywhere. She was scared, and honestly, I was furious.
I stormed outside, baseball in hand, and marched straight to Baron Bigshot, who was polishing his luxury car in the driveway. “Hey!” I yelled. “Your son’s baseball just crashed through my window. It nearly hit my daughter!” He barely looked up. “Are you sure it was my son’s ball?” he asked dismissively.
I held up the blueberry pie-smeared baseball. “Unless baseballs are falling from the sky, yeah, I’m sure.”
He sighed, clearly annoyed. “Do you have any proof it was him?”
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