The morning before Halloween, I opened my front door and froze.
My car — my only car — was covered in raw egg yolks and toilet paper.
Yellow slime dripped down the mirrors, the sour smell of egg hung heavy in the air, and long white ribbons of toilet paper fluttered from the antenna like creepy ghost streamers.
Beside me, my three-year-old tugged at my pajama sleeve, his voice small and serious.
“Mommy… is the car sick?” Noah whispered, his little finger pointing at the mess.
And just like that, the day began.
My name is Emily. I’m 36, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three very loud, very sticky, and incredible kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. My mornings usually start before the sun rises and end with whispered bedtime stories, long after I’ve already wanted to collapse.
Life isn’t glamorous, but it’s ours.
I didn’t ask for drama this Halloween. All I wanted was to get through the week, carry a sleeping toddler inside without dropping groceries, and maybe — just maybe — catch a full hour of sleep.
But apparently, parking in front of my neighbor’s house was enough to trigger Derek, the self-proclaimed king of holiday decorations, into full-blown Halloween warfare.
Derek lives two doors down. He’s in his 40s, single, and has too much free time and way too many decorations. At first, when I moved here, I thought it was sweet — fun, even. He was “that neighbor,” the one who went all out.
But as the years passed, it stopped being fun. His house became a year-round stage.
Christmas? Nonstop blasting music, fake snow machines.
Valentine’s Day? Red garlands everywhere, his porch glowing like a neon heart.
The Fourth of July? Literal explosions — my windows rattled from his fireworks.
And Halloween? That was Derek’s Super Bowl.
My kids adored it, of course. Every October, they pressed their noses against the living room window, shouting as his yard transformed.
“Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max yelled one night.
“And the skellytons!” Noah squealed.
“Skeletons, baby,” I corrected with a tired chuckle.
I’ll admit, there was a kind of magic in it — if you weren’t the one living next to it.
A few nights before Halloween, I dragged myself home from a brutal 12-hour hospital shift. My back screamed, my eyes burned, and the landlord’s maintenance truck blocked the driveway again.
It was after 9 p.m., pitch-black, and my kids were half-asleep in their car seats, still in pumpkin-print pajamas my mom had dressed them in.
“Mama, I’m cold,” Lily mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“I know, sweet girl,” I whispered, unbuckling her. “We’ll be inside soon.”
I parked in the only open spot — in front of Derek’s house — hoisted Noah on my shoulder, grabbed Max’s hand, and balanced grocery bags on my wrists. I wasn’t breaking any laws. I wasn’t trying to ruin his “graveyard scene.” I was just a tired mom trying to get home.
The next morning, my car was a crime scene of eggs and toilet paper.
Something inside me went still and cold. I followed the trail of broken eggshells on the ground — they led directly to Derek’s driveway.
I stormed over in my slippers, knocked hard, and when he opened the door, my voice was shaking with fury.
“Derek, did you seriously egg my car?”
He looked at me, calm as ever, in an orange hoodie that was supposed to look like a pumpkin. Behind him, his porch lights blinked red, and his creepy animatronic reaper swayed.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You parked right in front of my house. People couldn’t see the whole setup because of your stupid car.”
My jaw dropped. “So you egged my car — because it blocked your decorations?”
“You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he shrugged. “It’s Halloween. It’s all good fun. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Good fun?” I snapped. “You couldn’t have knocked on my door? Or left a note? I have to work at 8 a.m., Derek. Now I get to scrape dried egg off my windshield because you wanted a better angle for your fog machine?”
He rolled his eyes. “Neighbors come to see my decorations every single year. Even your kids watch. Don’t deny it — I’ve seen them! You blocked the graveyard, Emily. I worked hard on that one.”
“I’m a single mom, Derek. I’ve got three kids, and sometimes I’m carrying diaper bags, backpacks, toys, groceries — all at once. I parked there because it was close, and it was late. I’m not breaking any laws.”
He smirked. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. You chose to have those kids. Maybe next time, you’ll choose to park somewhere else.”
Something in me froze. I stared at him, then nodded once.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
“Okay?” he echoed, smirking.
“Yes. That’s all.”
I turned and walked away. From the window, Lily and Max were watching, worried.
“Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked.
“No,” I said with a smile I didn’t feel. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.”
That night, I made a decision. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw eggs back. I got smart.
I documented everything — photos of the eggs, the shells, the toilet paper, even a video with the date and time. Then I went to my neighbors.
Marisol, still in slippers with a tea in hand, confirmed what she saw.
“I saw Derek outside around 11 p.m.,” she said. “Thought he was just fussing with those ridiculous decorations.”
Rob, who was taking out the trash, nodded too. “He was muttering about ‘view blockers.’ That’s gotta be about your car. Oh, and you better wash it quick — eggs ruin the paint.”
By the next day, I had statements, photos, and a police report. The repair shop quoted $500 for the damage. I put it all in a neat folder, wrote a letter demanding payment, and slipped it under Derek’s door.
I also sent a copy to the HOA.
Two days later, Derek showed up at my porch, red-faced.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.”
“You damaged my property,” I said evenly. “The police know. The HOA knows. Do you really want to take it to court?”
He stared, then shoved a folded receipt into my hand. He had paid the detailing bill.
That weekend, Derek came back — this time with a bucket and rags.
“I paid the detailer,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. “But I thought maybe I could… help clean the rest before you take it in.”
I opened the door halfway and studied him. His shoulders were hunched, his voice quiet. Guilt clung to him like fog.
“Start with the mirrors,” I said. “And the front tires are still a mess.”
He nodded and got to work silently.
Inside, the kids pressed their faces to the window.
“The skellyton man is washing our car?” Max asked, eyes wide.
“Because he made it dirty,” Lily answered wisely. “And he got caught.”
“That’s right,” I said softly. “Bad behavior always leaves a mess. And someone always sees.”
That night, we made caramel apples and Halloween cupcakes, giggling as the kids smeared frosting across their noses.
“Are we giving these to anyone?” Max asked.
“Nope,” I said, booping his nose with a sprinkle. “This year, Halloween is just for us.”
By Halloween night, Derek’s yard was still decorated, but quieter. The fog machines were off, the spooky music silenced. Fewer people came by.
But inside my home, it was peaceful. My kids laughed, sugar-high and happy. My car was clean. And my heart was calm.
The holiday taught me something I’ll never forget: you can’t control your neighbors, but you can control how you respond.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t stoop. I stood tall with proof, with patience, with quiet strength.
The next morning, Max asked as he packed up his crafts, “Mom, are you mad at the skellyton man?”
“Skeleton, baby,” I said with a smile. “And no, I’m not mad. But I’m proud.”
“Proud of what?” Lily asked.
“Proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly,” I said. “And proud that I handled it without becoming someone I don’t want to be.”
And as I sipped my coffee, watching Derek scrub away the last of the egg stains he caused, I realized something.
Justice doesn’t always look like shouting. Sometimes it looks like standing in your kitchen, calm, while the man who tried to humiliate you is outside cleaning your car.
And knowing — without a doubt — that you won.