For nineteen mornings, Bernadette’s silver Corsa had blocked my private driveway. Every morning, I stood at the window watching the clock while my seven-year-old and five-year-old hurried through breakfast, their school bags ready and shoes already on. I had asked her politely to stop. My husband had asked. I had even left written notices. Bernadette ignored every request, telling me that I should simply “wait” because she had somewhere important to be. Meanwhile, my children were marked late at school, and my youngest had started crying whenever we approached the classroom.

So I stopped asking. I photographed the car every morning, recorded the dates and times, saved every message, and contacted the proper removal company. I had spent three weeks building a file while Bernadette continued parking there, convinced I would never act.

Then, one gray morning, at exactly ten past seven, a truck appeared at the end of our road.