For eighteen mornings, Bernadette’s silver Corsa blocked my private driveway. Every morning, I asked her to move it. Every morning, she ignored me. I had two boys, seven and five, who needed to get to school on time, but her car turned every simple morning into a crisis. My youngest began crying whenever we approached the driveway because he knew we might be late again. I photographed the car, recorded the dates, kept every warning from the school, and documented every conversation. Bernadette dismissed me completely. “You’ll survive,” she told me once, as though my children’s time and my job meant nothing.

After three weeks, I stopped asking. I contacted a licensed vehicle-removal company and gave them the documentation. On the eighteenth morning, a truck arrived at ten past seven. The men checked the registration, photographed the car across my driveway, and began attaching the equipment. My boys were eating cereal behind me, their school bags ready. Then Bernadette’s bedroom light switched on. Moments later, she came storming outside in a dressing gown, shouting as she crossed the driveway toward me.