My name’s Tessa. I’m 39, recently divorced, and finally living in the little cottage I worked years to afford. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine — with a driveway that fits exactly one car. My car.

The neighbor, Vince, introduced himself on day one with the confidence of a man who’s never been told no. He had this massive truck that barely fit in his driveway, so of course, he decided to use mine.

“I’ll only be there when you’re not,” he said casually. “It’s just more convenient for me.”

I told him no. Firmly. Kindly. He nodded and smiled like I was joking.

The next day? His truck was parked there.

I left a note. He ignored it. I knocked on his door. He acted surprised.

“Didn’t think you’d mind, since you weren’t using it,” he said, as if my property rights were optional.

This went on for weeks. He blocked me in. Blocked deliveries. Even blocked a plumber from fixing my busted sink.

I told him if it happened again, I’d have the car towed. He laughed.

But then last weekend, I went out of town to visit my sister. I came back… and not only was his truck parked in my driveway — it was up on JACKS. He was using my space to work on it.

That was it.

I didn’t call the police. I didn’t leave another note.

The next morning, I called a local tow company and explained the situation. They said they needed proof it wasn’t authorized. Easy. I had every text and note I’d left Vince, and photos of my empty driveway in previous weeks.

I also called my lawyer friend, Sandra, just to make sure I was in the clear. She chuckled and said, “Not only can you tow it, but you should. And if he gets nasty, call me.”

So I did it. Bright and early, a tow truck rolled in. Vince’s truck — jacks and all — was gone within the hour. They even left a neat little sign on the curb that read, “Tow-Away Zone.”

I figured Vince would come knocking that evening. I wasn’t wrong.

Bang bang bang.

I opened the door, calm as ever, coffee mug in hand.

“Where the hell is my truck?” he shouted.

“Gone,” I said. “Tow company has it. You’ll need to pay them to get it back.”

“You had no right!” he barked.

“I gave you weeks of warnings. You laughed. This isn’t a negotiation anymore.”

He huffed and puffed and stormed off like a toddler who’d been denied a second dessert. I thought that was the end of it.

I was wrong again.

A few days later, I started getting weird looks from the neighbors. One morning I opened my mailbox and found an anonymous letter accusing me of “unneighborly behavior.” Another time, someone egged my front door.

Vince was stirring the pot.

I tried to ignore it, but then one Saturday, I saw him chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Denby across the street — sweet, elderly couple, always kind to me. But they were looking at me like I’d just run over their cat.

So I decided to throw a little garden brunch. Nothing fancy. Just tea, lemonade, and some homemade muffins. I invited the whole street, including the Denbys.

When they came, I made sure to smile, laugh, be warm — and when the moment came, I told the story.

I didn’t bash Vince. I just laid out the facts. Photos. Notes. Dates. Even screenshots of texts.

By the time I was done, the mood had shifted. People began sharing their own stories. Turns out Vince had a habit of borrowing things without asking — garden tools, ladders, even someone’s pressure washer. I wasn’t the only one.

The best twist? Mrs. Denby confessed he’d once parked his truck half on their lawn while having guests over. “We just didn’t want to cause trouble,” she said.

The man was a serial boundary-crosser.

Word spread. Vince didn’t get the sympathy he expected. People started calling him out. One guy asked for his ladder back — it had been missing for two years. Another stopped lending him anything.

But I wasn’t done.

A week later, I had a tiny sign professionally installed at the base of my driveway: Private Property. Unauthorized Vehicles Will Be Towed Immediately. It even had my lawyer’s number at the bottom, just in case.

That’s when Vince snapped.

He came over again, trying to play nice. “Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot…”

“No, Vince,” I said. “You walked on my foot, parked a truck on it, and then got mad when I moved it.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally nodded.

I thought that was the final chapter. But karma, oh, karma had one more twist in store.

Three weeks later, I saw flashing lights in Vince’s driveway. Police. Tow truck. Turns out he’d been illegally running a little “garage” operation from his home. Working on vehicles for cash without permits. Someone reported him.

I didn’t. But I had a strong feeling who did.

As his truck was being loaded up again — this time by the city — I saw Mrs. Denby sipping tea on her porch, not even pretending to look away. She winked at me.

In the end, Vince sold his house within three months. Too much “bad blood,” I suppose. A new couple moved in — friendly, respectful, quiet. They knocked on my door with a pie and said, “We heard you like clear boundaries.”

I laughed for a full minute.

Now, months later, I still smile when I pull into my driveway. It’s a little strip of concrete, but it represents something bigger: standing up for yourself, even when it feels awkward or petty. Especially then.

Because people like Vince count on your silence. They thrive on your discomfort.

But once you push back — once you say, “No, this is mine,” — it changes everything.

I learned something through all this. Being kind doesn’t mean being a doormat. And setting boundaries doesn’t make you rude — it makes you free.

So if you’ve got a “Vince” in your life, don’t just hope they’ll change.

Give ‘em a reason to.

If you liked this story or it reminded you of someone in your life, go ahead and share it. Let’s help more people realize: you don’t mess with someone who’s been quiet for too long — especially not a divorced woman with a bit of time and a whole lot of resolve.