It started with ten minutes. Roberta would leave her SUV in my driveway whenever she visited someone across the street. Ten minutes became an hour, then three, and eventually entire nights. I politely asked her to stop, and she always agreed, but never changed. Eventually, I bought a sign that read PRIVATE DRIVEWAY — NO PARKING. She simply parked beside it and accused me of making a huge fuss over nothing. She was right that the space was usually empty. Since my husband died, only my car occupied it. But empty never meant available.

Then came the morning of my medical appointment, scheduled for 8:15 after weeks of waiting. Roberta’s SUV blocked me completely. I knocked and called for twenty minutes before giving up. She finally appeared that afternoon, shrugged, and said she’d been asleep. The following Monday, when she parked there again, I didn’t argue. I poured another cup of coffee and waited. By noon, thirty cars filled my driveway and the gravel path behind it. Roberta stormed outside in her housecoat, demanding that I move them. I calmly refused. Then the final man stepped from the crowd, saw her, and quietly said, “Roberta…” Her face suddenly lost all its color.