I’ve had my fair share of difficult neighbors, but this one? He came with a camera crew, a fake smile, and plumbing ethics that could only be described as raccoon-level. He transformed my late grandmother’s garden, once a serene oasis, into a biohazard zone by secretly rerouting his sewage line to cut costs. My response? It had the entire town buzzing.
I’m Betty, 30, and I live in my grandparents’ charming cottage with the same white picket fence they carefully painted year after year. Their garden—my grandmother’s pride and joy—became my sanctuary. Working as a remote designer, I spent countless hours in my office overlooking those beautiful flower beds. Life was good… until Todd moved in next door.
I’ll never forget the day he pulled up. His moving truck was blocking my driveway, and there he stood: gold chain gleaming in the sunlight, slicked-back hair, barking orders into his phone while his movers struggled. “Hey there!” I called, trying to sound friendly as I waved. “Welcome to Maple Lane! I’m Betty from next door.”
Todd glanced over, gave me a once-over, and then flashed a grin. “Todd! Just snagged this place for a steal. Gonna make it something worth looking at.”
His house, a charming little cottage just like mine, looked perfectly fine already, but I kept that to myself. “It’s a beautiful home as is,” I said.
“If you’re into outdated everything,” he sneered. “Don’t worry, my renovations will boost your property value too. You’re welcome in advance.”
His dog, some overly pampered breed, started barking wildly, and Todd didn’t even acknowledge me as he went back to his phone call. I muttered to myself, “Well, this will be interesting.”
A month later, “interesting” had morphed into “insufferable.” The construction noise was relentless, and Todd’s presence was even worse. Every interaction felt like a bizarre competition I didn’t sign up for.
One afternoon, I was pruning the oak tree that had stood proudly in my yard for 70 years when Todd’s shadow loomed across me.
“That tree’s gotta go,” he declared, hands on his hips like he was auditioning for his social media account—ironically named “Todd the Modern Man.”
I nearly fell off my ladder. “Excuse me?”
“Your tree,” he said, pointing up. “It’s blocking prime sunlight from hitting my new deck.” He gestured to the massive wooden platform he’d just finished building. “I need full sun exposure for my outdoor content.”
I set my secateurs down slowly. “This oak has been here for decades. It’s not going anywhere.”
Todd huffed. “Look, BETTY,” he practically sneered my name, “I’m trying to elevate this neighborhood. That deck cost me twelve grand. Your tree is literally blocking my investment.”
“That’s generally what trees do, Todd. They provide shade.”
His jaw clenched. “I could have it declared a hazard.”
“It’s healthy and nowhere near your property line.”
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, heading off. “And by the way, you might want to train your dog not to bark at mine. Some of us work from home.”
I stared at him, baffled. “I don’t even have a dog!” I shouted after him.
Todd waved without turning around, his smugness grating. “Unbelievable,” I whispered to my oak tree, shaking my head.
But then, the scent in my garden began to change. It wasn’t the usual earthy fragrance—it was something foul. My boots sank deeper into the soil, and my tomatoes turned yellow. My beloved herbs wilted. The roses—my grandmother’s roses, the ones she’d cherished for decades—started to die.
The smell was unmistakable. It wasn’t compost. It was something rancid.
I called a plumber, Mike, who arrived quickly to inspect. As he walked through my garden, his frown deepened with each step.
“Something’s definitely leaking,” he muttered, pulling out his equipment.
An hour later, he called me over to the back of my shed.
“Found it!” he said, pointing to a green pipe partially buried in mulch. “But here’s the odd part… this pipe doesn’t connect to your house.”
I stared at him, bewildered. “What do you mean? Where does it lead?”
Mike ran a camera through the pipe. The screen showed it traveling through bends and eventually stopping at a deck foundation that looked suspiciously familiar.
“Your neighbor’s house,” Mike said grimly. “Someone rerouted his sewage to drain into your garden.”
My stomach churned. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Money,” Mike explained. “Getting the proper sewage hookup costs a fortune. This way, he flushes without paying the full price.”
I thought about Todd’s relentless renovations and his constant bragging about cutting corners.
“Can you document this? Take pictures?” I asked.
Mike nodded. “Already on it. You planning to confront him?”
I looked at the patch of dying roses, their petals brown and limp. “Not exactly. I need a second opinion.”
That evening, I called my cousin Nate, a contractor who specialized in plumbing. When I explained what had happened, he didn’t hesitate.
“He did WHAT?!?” Nate’s voice boomed through the phone.
I repeated myself. “He rerouted his sewage into my garden. The plumber confirmed it.”
“That’s not just disgusting, it’s illegal as hell,” Nate growled. “We’re calling the city.”
I paused. An idea began to form. “Actually, I was thinking of something… more immediate.”
Nate was silent for a moment. “What are you planning?”
I grinned. “Did you know Todd’s hosting a backyard BBQ this weekend? Some big sponsorship event. There’ll be influencers, local press…”
A chuckle bubbled up from Nate. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“Can you reroute a pipe to connect to a sprinkler system? Hypothetically speaking.”
Nate laughed. “You’re evil, you know! But yeah, I’ll be there tomorrow night. After dark.”
As promised, Nate arrived with his toolbox and a gleam in his eye that reminded me of our childhood pranks.
“This is the most unethical job I’ve ever done,” he whispered as we worked under the cover of night. “And the most satisfying.”
With remarkable efficiency, Nate disconnected the illegal pipe and rerouted it to Todd’s sprinklers instead of the proper sewer line.
“The best part,” Nate said, installing a smart sensor, “is that it won’t trigger randomly… only when he turns on the sprinklers manually.”
I smirked. “Which he loves to show off to his guests.”
The next day, Todd’s backyard was buzzing with guests, influencers, and bloggers snapping photos of his fancy grill. He proudly introduced his custom irrigation system, pressing a button on his phone with a flourish.
The sprinklers hummed to life, spraying a fine mist over the yard.
And then, the smell hit.
“OH MY GOD!” someone gagged. “What is THAT?”
“Did something die?” asked a man, sniffing his beer suspiciously.
A woman screamed, “IT’S SEWAGE!” as the sprinklers continued to spray.
Chaos erupted. Guests scattered, some slipping on the lawn as others screamed about ruined shoes. Todd stood frozen, his face changing from confusion to horror as he frantically jabbed at his phone.
I stood with Nate, watching from my patio, a mix of satisfaction and vindication settling in. Then, Todd saw us. His face turned purple.
“You!” he yelled, storming toward the fence. “You did this!”
I met him halfway, holding a small ziplock bag. “Having plumbing issues?” I asked sweetly.
“You sabotaged my event!” Todd spat. “You have no idea how important this was! There are INFLUENCERS here!”
I held up the bag, showing him a handful of my grandmother’s dead roses, soaked in his sewage.
“Funny thing about sewage, Todd. It always flows downhill. Just like it flowed from your house into my garden for the past two months.”
His face went from recognition to guilt, then quickly to anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.
I handed him the bag. “Return to sender, Todd. We reap what we sow.”
As I turned to walk away, I heard someone from the crowd say, “So, ‘Todd the Modern Man’ is actually ‘Todd the Sewage Dumper?’”
The story spread quickly. Todd’s social media followers dropped like flies, and his sponsorships evaporated. The grill company cut ties with him, and his “brand” was shattered. A meme circulated: “More like Todd the Poo Sprinkler Manager.”
A week later, Todd came by to tell me he was selling the house. “Can’t exactly salvage my brand here,” he said.
I looked at him, the knot of anger loosening. “Good luck with that.”
Three months later, my garden showed signs of life again. And one afternoon, as I was planting new herbs, Lisa, the new neighbor, called me over.
“We found something in the yard,” she said, leading me to a half-dead rose bush.
“It’s one of my grandmother’s roses,” I whispered, tears welling up.
Lisa smiled. “We thought it was dead, but look—it’s growing again.”
I carefully transplanted it into my garden, whispering, “Welcome home, old friend.”
And just like that, life bloomed again. Sometimes, the best things grow from the most unlikely places.
