Owning my first home was a big deal. I’m Ryan, 29, and my two-bedroom in Cedar Lane was my haven. Three weeks after moving in, I pulled into my driveway, the evening sun glowing. My flower beds were thriving, but a lawnmower’s hum surprised me. A teenage boy was mowing my front yard, earbuds in, halfway done with neat rows. Confused, I approached. “Hey, I’m Ryan, I live here,” I said. “Why are you mowing?” The boy, around 14, stopped and removed an earbud.
“I’m Logan,” he said, pointing to a yellow house across the street. “I mow lawns for cash. Usually $50.” I blinked. “Fifty?” He shrugged. “I’d take $10, but Mom says it’s $50.” I looked at the lawn. “Logan, I didn’t ask for this. I was going to mow it.” He looked down. “Mom said it needed it and you’d be happy.” I sighed. “I can’t pay for something I didn’t request. Ask me next time, okay?” Logan nodded, sheepish, and wheeled his mower home. I felt bad for him, but it wasn’t right.
Next morning, my doorbell rang like an alarm, interrupting my coffee. A woman stood outside, arms crossed. “I’m Susan, Logan’s mom,” she said angrily. “Why didn’t you pay my son for mowing?” I stayed calm. “I’m Ryan. I didn’t ask him to mow.” Susan huffed. “He did half your lawn! It was a mess. You owe $50!” I shook my head. “You can’t send your kid to my yard without asking, then expect money.” She snapped, “That’s neighborly!” I said, “Neighborly is checking first. I’m not paying.” Susan glared, saying, “You’ll regret this,” and left.
That weekend, I got creative. Susan judged my lawn—maybe hers needed my touch. Her yard was loud with gnomes, flamingos, and a “Joy” sign. Saturday, after she and Logan left, I packed her decor into labeled boxes, storing them in my garage. Her yard looked clean, my way. That evening, Susan yelled, “Where’s my stuff?” She stormed over. “You stole my gnomes!” I sipped my drink. “I tidied up. They cluttered the street.” She fumed. “That’s theft!” I smiled. “Like sending Logan to mow? Your stuff’s safe. Want it, or call the cops?” She paused, getting it.
Logan rode up, nervous. “Logan,” I said, handing him $50. “For your effort. But ask first next time. Need work? We’ll talk.” He grinned. “Thanks, Mr. Ryan. Sorry.” Susan walked off silently. Logan helped me return her decor, earning $20. A week later, Susan avoided me, but Logan waved. Then, cookies appeared on my porch: “Logan baked these. – Susan.” Not an apology, but progress. Susan learned boundaries matter, and I learned standing up can still leave room for peace.
