For years, life on Maple Street was calm—neighbors trusted each other, and handshakes were as good as contracts. I even built a fence with my old neighbors, Grant and Candice, based on a simple agreement. It wasn’t on the exact property line, but no one cared.
Then came Patrice. A flashy realtor with sharp heels and a sharper tongue. Six months after moving in, she hired a surveyor and declared my fence was nine inches on her land. “Move it or pay me,” she demanded, calling it ugly. Heartbroken, I tore it down.
But karma works fast. Without a fence, her beloved dog Duke ran wild—chewing her furniture, destroying her house, even breaking free during a garage sale, where someone stole her purse. Desperate, Patrice begged me to rebuild the fence, even offering to pay. I refused.
Her life unraveled. Duke was too much to handle, and she couldn’t control the chaos. Tired of the drama, I sold my house and moved away, taking my fence panels with me.
Now, in my new neighborhood, my yard is peaceful, my fence stands strong, and my dog runs free. Patrice thought she’d won by tearing my fence down—but in the end, karma made sure she paid the price.
