The parking situation around our place had always been a nightmare. Not enough spots, ever. We had two cars, both essential for work, but sometimes it felt like a constant battle just to get them both parked within a three-block radius. We knew it was frustrating for everyone, but what could we do? Then the note appeared. Tucked under the wiper blade of my car. Crumpled, handwritten in harsh block letters: “One car per house!”
I stared at it. My partner just scoffed. Seriously? Who even does this? We laughed it off, more annoyed than anything. Some petty neighbor, clearly. We needed both cars. End of story. We crumpled the note and tossed it. Let them stew. We had bigger things to worry about. We went about our lives, grumbling about rude people but largely forgetting the incident.
Three days later, I woke up to an empty street. My heart plummeted. My car was gone. I ran outside, breath catching in my throat. My partner’s car, too. BOTH OF THEM.
Panic flared. A cold, dreadful certainty settled over me. It had to be the neighbor. This was pure, unadulterated malice. What kind of person would go to such lengths? I paced, frantic. We were stranded. How would we get to work? How would we even find out where they were towed? The rage boiled, a hot, bitter taste in my mouth. This is going to cost us everything.
We spent hours on the phone, a blur of tow companies and impound lots. Finally, a small voice confirmed it. Our cars were at the lot across town. The charges were already astronomical. Retrieval fees, storage fees, release fees. It was a financial gut punch.
“We need to go down there,” my partner said, his voice tight with fury. “And we need to get the name of whoever authorized this. I’m calling the police. This is harassment.”
The impound lot was depressing, a sea of forgotten vehicles under a harsh industrial light. The clerk was bored, barely looking up. “Just need you to sign here,” he mumbled, pushing a clipboard.
“We need to know who requested this tow,” I said, my voice shaking. “We know it was malicious. We need a name.”
He sighed, tapping on his computer. “Property owner authorized. It says here… ah. Okay. Registered property owner.” He paused, looking at his screen, then at us. “The request was made by… [Partner’s Name].”
The air left my lungs. My knees buckled. It felt like the ground had just fallen away beneath me. I heard a distant ringing in my ears. WHAT?!
I looked at my partner. His face was ash. His eyes wide, unfocused. He said nothing. Just stood there, frozen.
The clerk must have seen our faces because he just shrugged, going back to his screen. “Sign here, please.”
No. This can’t be real. I snatched the clipboard, my hand trembling as I stared at the signature line. The date, the time, the name. His name. HE HAD DONE IT. He had called the tow truck himself. He had arranged for our cars, my car, to be taken away. Not the neighbor. Not some random act of vengeance. But him.
We barely spoke on the way home, a chilling silence in the rideshare. My mind raced, trying to piece it together. The note. The anger. The fake outrage. It all made sense now, a sick, twisted puzzle.
He finally spoke when we were inside, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I needed them gone. Both of them.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “There’s… there’s someone else.” He took a shaky breath. “She’s pregnant. And she needed a place to park her car. The neighbor’s note was just… a convenient excuse. I needed to make room. For her. And our baby.”
My world shattered. Not just the betrayal, not just the lie, but the sheer, calculated cruelty of it. He didn’t just tow our cars. He towed our entire life away to make room for his other one. I stood there, utterly broken. The neighbor wasn’t the enemy. He was.
