My neighbors are incredibly jealous people. Once, a friend of mine left a new car at my house and they saw it.
When they asked me whose car it was, I jokingly said it was mine. A week later, my friend took it and the neighbors were shocked. It turned out that they had told everyone on the street that I’d somehow “come into money” or won the lottery.

That was just the beginning.

I live in a modest neighborhood outside of Savannah, nothing too fancy—older homes, decent yards, mostly longtime residents who mind their business. But not the Rasmis. That’s what I call them—short for Rashida and Samil. They moved in about five years ago, and from day one, they had a thing for snooping.

It’s like their full-time hobby is comparing their lives to everyone else’s. If someone got a new lawnmower, Samil suddenly needed a riding one. If someone upgraded their siding, Rashida would suddenly “discover mold” on theirs. I tried to be friendly at first, but it became exhausting. Everything turned into a weird competition.

So when my buddy Alain left his Tesla with me for a week while he flew to Portugal, I knew what would happen. The second I pulled it into my driveway, Rashida was peeking through the blinds.

She came over with her usual smile—tight, polite, full of calculation. “Wow,” she said, eyeing the car. “Didn’t know you were into electric. Nice pick.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Yeah, figured I’d treat myself. You only live once, right?”

She laughed, but it was forced. Like it hurt her teeth. “Must be doing really well, huh?”

I nodded and shrugged, playing it off. “You could say that.”

They spent the next few days parading by with their own car doors open, polishing their older BMW like it was made of gold. Samil even shouted across the lawn, “Guess we all gotta keep up with the neighbors now!”

Then Alain came back, and the Tesla was gone.

I didn’t see them outside for two days.

It wasn’t even about the car. It was the idea of me doing better than them. Of me having something they didn’t understand.

Things got worse after that.

Two weeks later, I got a job promotion. Not a flashy one, but it bumped my income enough that I finally repainted the house and replaced the old roof. It was long overdue. But the Rasmis acted like I’d insulted them personally.

Rashida cornered me at the mailbox. “Noticed all the work you’re doing. Planning to sell?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just taking care of what I got.”

She raised her eyebrows, all fake-casual. “That kind of money just fall from the sky?”

That was her way of fishing. I didn’t take the bait.

“Nah,” I said. “Hard work. You should try it.”

Okay, that one might’ve been a little mean.

But from then on, they stepped it up.

First, it was the HOA. I got notices about “trash bins left out too long” when they were out for fifteen minutes. Then came a report about “unauthorized exterior paint color,” even though I’d used the exact shade listed on the approved list.

I found out later that Rashida is best friends with the HOA secretary.

I kept my cool. I figured they’d eventually run out of steam.

But then the packages started disappearing.

I thought it was porch pirates at first. But one day, I got a Ring cam notification while I was at work. Watched Samil casually stroll up, pick up a box from my porch, and walk back next door like he was borrowing sugar.

I confronted him that night.

He acted confused. Said he thought it was a delivery mix-up, and that he meant to return it.

“Cool,” I said. “Then just give it back.”

He made a show of checking the garage. “Huh, must’ve tossed the box. Didn’t even open it. My bad.”

It was a $90 wireless router. He never returned it.

That’s when I started documenting everything. Every interaction. Every petty move. I wasn’t planning anything, but I wanted receipts.

Then something happened that even I couldn’t believe.

My younger cousin Leilah moved in for a few months while she finished her final semester at Georgia Southern. Bright, polite, quiet—barely said two words to the neighbors.

But she was pretty. And twenty-two.

And apparently, Samil took notice.

Leilah told me he started “accidentally” showing up when she’d go out for a walk. Waving too eagerly. Asking if she needed a ride somewhere. Once, he even showed up at the backyard gate and asked if she could help him “lift something from the car.”

She told me she felt uneasy, and I told her to stay clear of him. I installed a second camera facing the back.

A few days later, Rashida showed up at my door—unannounced, in her fake little windbreaker and lip gloss—and told me her husband felt “disrespected” by how Leilah had been “ignoring him.”

I shut the door in her face.

That’s when the rumors started.

I found out from a friend at church that Rashida had told people I was “running some kind of side business” from home. That I had “people coming and going” at odd hours. That I was “letting my cousin entertain men for money.”

I nearly lost it.

But then I remembered something.

About a year ago, I caught Samil out back with a drone. He said it was a gift from his nephew, just playing around. But now I started wondering.

I dug through my old footage. Sure enough, I found clips where a drone hovered near my second-story windows.

I checked the local drone laws. Called a friend who used to work in surveillance. Bought a signal jammer.

But I didn’t stop there.

I printed out stills from the video and mailed them—with no return address—to the HOA, a few of their extended family members I found on Facebook, and even to Rashida’s job. (She worked part-time at a local dental clinic.)

Within a week, the drone disappeared.

And so did their smiles.

Things went quiet for a while. Too quiet.

Then one afternoon, I came home to flashing lights. Police. Animal control. Two city inspectors.

Someone had reported me for animal neglect. Said they heard “cries of suffering” and saw a “dog in chains” in my backyard.

I don’t even own a dog.

They searched everything. Filed a report. Left empty-handed.

But it was the last straw.

I took all my footage. The stolen packages. The drone. The weird gate encounter with Leilah. The false report. I compiled it into a clean, organized folder and sent it to a lawyer friend of mine.

I didn’t sue. But I did file a restraining order. And I sent the same packet to the HOA.

Suddenly, the notices stopped.

Samil stopped making eye contact.

Rashida walked with her head low.

Then came the twist.

A few months later, a new car appeared in their driveway. A sleek black Audi.

I figured they were trying to bounce back from the embarrassment. But a week later, it was gone.

Turns out, it wasn’t theirs.

It belonged to a woman named Jalila. She’d been seeing Samil on the side for over a year. She’d even lent him the Audi while she went on a cruise.

Guess who found out?

Rashida.

I only found out because she knocked on my door at 10:30 p.m. one night, face blotchy and bare, mascara streaked under her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice cracking. “For everything. For the lies. For the drama. I didn’t know. I thought we were happy.”

I didn’t say much. Just offered her water and a chair. She didn’t take either. She just stood there, twisting her wedding ring around and around.

Two weeks later, Samil was gone. Divorce filed. House up for sale.

And just like that, the street felt lighter.

Leilah finished her degree. Got a job up in Raleigh. I got myself a dog, ironically. A lazy old beagle from the shelter. Named him Karma.

Sometimes, I sit on the porch with Karma and watch new neighbors move into the Rasmis’ old place. A sweet older couple, quiet, keeps to themselves.

I think about how some people get so wrapped up in envy that they destroy the very thing they’re trying to protect.

I never wanted to win anything. I just wanted peace.

And now, finally, I have it.

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