The morning before Halloween, I opened the front door and froze in my tracks. My car looked like it had been hit with the world’s stickiest flu—egg yolk smeared thickly, sliding down the windows in yellow rivers, and strips of toilet paper trailing from the antenna like ghostly, haunted bunting fluttering in a cold wind.
“Mommy… is the car sick?” Noah whispered beside me, his big eyes wide with concern and curiosity.
I fought back the laugh bubbling up inside me because honestly, it was either laugh or swear. I swallowed hard and said, “A little,” trying to sound calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix it.”
I’m Emily, 36 years old, a nurse by profession and a single mother of three wonderful but energetic kids: Lily, Max, and my youngest, toddler tornado Noah. Most days feel like a non-stop relay race, running from bedtime stories to checking vitals at work, with a grocery run or two thrown in for good measure. I don’t pick fights—there simply isn’t time for them. But last night, after a long day, I parked in the only spot I could find, right in front of Derek’s house. Like every other time, I thought it would be fine.
Derek lives just two doors down and takes holidays way too seriously. What started as harmless fun has turned into an all-out competition. The speakers grow louder each year, the fog machines pump thicker clouds, fireworks explode ever closer, and his patience for anyone who gets in his way has worn thin. Halloween is Derek’s Super Bowl. Skeletons with glowing eyes. Fog machines that choke the street. An animatronic reaper so realistic it makes even grown men mutter “nope” and cross the road.
I noticed a trail of eggshells cracked open on the pavement, like little breadcrumbs from someone’s guilty conscience. The shells led straight to Derek’s driveway.
I told the kids to stay put, shoved my feet into slippers, and marched over, knocking on his door hard enough to rattle even his creepy reaper decoration. Derek opened the door wearing an orange hoodie, already smug and unapologetic.
“Did you egg my car?” I asked, voice flat but firm.
“Yeah,” he said casually, like we were just chatting about the weather. “You blocked the graveyard. People couldn’t see my setup. It’s Halloween—don’t be so dramatic.”
“You couldn’t leave a note? Knock on my door? I got home after nine with three sleeping kids and groceries. I’m not breaking any laws.”
Derek smirked. “Not my problem. You chose to have those kids. Park somewhere else.”
Something inside me went cold and quiet. I nodded once, simply said, “Okay.”
I walked back past the worried faces of Lily and Max pressed against the glass. “Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked nervously.
“No,” I said, giving a small smile to reassure them. “But he messed with the wrong mom.”
That night, after the house was finally quiet, I stood by the kitchen window, the light off, staring out at my poor car draped in soggy toilet paper. I wasn’t shaking with anger—no, anger made me methodical.
I took photos from every angle—the yolk drips, the shattered eggshell pieces stuck to the paint, the twisted toilet paper. I made a short video with the date and time stamped clearly. Then I went door to door, sweater on, baby monitor clipped to my back pocket.
Marisol, two houses down, opened her door wearing a face mask and slippers. “You okay, honey?” she asked.
“Did you see anyone outside around eleven last night?” I asked.
She glanced toward Derek’s house and grimaced. “He was out there messing with those stupid decorations. I can write that down if you want.”
Rob was dragging his trash can to the curb, a popsicle stick hanging from his mouth. “He was grumbling about ‘view blockers,’” he said. “You better hose that car soon—eggs will eat through the paint. Want me to give a statement?”
The next morning, I called the non-emergency police line. Officer Bryant arrived with a clipboard and a calming presence. He let Max touch his badge, took my statement, and advised me to get a detailing estimate. It was going to cost around five hundred dollars.
I printed everything—the photos, neighbor statements, the police report, the estimate—and slipped a demand letter under Derek’s door. I also cc’ed the HOA, just to make sure.
Two days later, Derek showed up at my door, jaw tight. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just Halloween.”
“You vandalized my car,” I said evenly. “The police have the report. The HOA has a copy. Do you want to explain ‘just Halloween’ to a judge or pay the bill?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then wordlessly held out the detailer’s receipt—paid in full. That weekend, he appeared with a bucket and rags anyway. “Figured I could help before you take it in,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere beyond me.
“Start with the mirrors,” I said. “The front tires are still a mess.”
From the couch, the kids watched through the window like it was the slowest parade ever. “The skeleton man is washing our car?” Max whispered.
“Because he made it dirty,” Lily said matter-of-factly. “And he got caught.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Bad choices make messes. Someone always has to clean them up.”
We made cupcakes while he scrubbed—kids pressing candy eyeballs onto frosting, dunking apples into warm caramel, tongues poking out in concentration. By the time we were done, Derek had disappeared down the sidewalk, shoulders slumped and quiet. His house was still a graveyard by nightfall, but the fog machines were silent and the speakers muted. Fewer people stopped by to gawk.
Inside, we had our own version of Halloween: pillows piled high on the floor, sugar-fueled giggles, and a clean car parked right where it belonged. Peace hummed in the walls, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
The next morning, as we packed away paper bats and glitter-covered crafts, Max asked, “Are you mad at the skeleton man?”
“Skeleton,” I corrected gently. “And no. I’m proud.”
“Of what?” Lily asked.
“That I didn’t let someone treat us badly,” I said. “And that I handled it without becoming someone I don’t want to be.”
I’ve learned you can’t control your neighbors, their fog machines, or their oversized egos. But you can control how you respond. Sometimes justice looks like a neat folder filled with receipts and statements. Sometimes it looks like a man in an orange hoodie scrubbing egg off your side mirror while your kids lick caramel off their fingers and watch from the warm safety of your living room.
And sometimes, justice looks like standing at your kitchen window with a cup of coffee, knowing you didn’t just hold your ground—you built something steadier on it.