For weeks, Denise blocked our driveway every morning with her silver Vauxhall Corsa, despite having her own driveway and two parking spaces.
My children were late for school three times, and when I finally confronted her, she simply rolled her eyes.
“You’ll survive.”
So I stopped arguing.
At 5:30 one Monday morning, I reviewed 22 timestamped photos and made one phone call.
“Silver Vauxhall Corsa?”
“That’s the one.”
“Completely blocking vehicle access?”
“Completely.”
“Documented repeated obstruction?”
“Twenty-two mornings.”
At 6:18, a recovery truck arrived.
At 6:33, Denise’s bedroom light came on.
Seconds later, she came running outside in her dressing gown.
“What are you doing to my car?”
Then she saw me standing in my doorway with a coffee.
“You!”
I smiled.
“Morning.”
She demanded to know if I had called them.
“Yes.”
“You could have knocked!”
I took a sip.
“At 5:30?”
She had no answer.
By the time my boys left for school that morning, they were early for the first time in weeks.
And Denise finally learned something she should have understood 22 mornings earlier:
My driveway wasn’t hers to block.