After a two-week trip, Mina came home to a nightmare: her joyful yellow house, lovingly painted by her late husband, had been redone in a dull shade by her meddling neighbors. Outraged at their boldness, she fought back and gave them a lesson they’d never forget.
Hey everyone, I’m Mina, 57 and full of fire… and I’m still steaming. Picture pulling into your driveway after a long trip, expecting your bright, happy home, only to see a stranger of a house staring back. That’s what hit me, and I’m still burning with anger…
I live on a corner lot. Two years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Kane, a newlywed couple, moved in next door. From day one, they threw snarky remarks at my vibrant yellow house.
They’d snicker and say, “Wow, that’s the loudest house we’ve ever seen! Did you paint it yourself?”
“Yep, me and a splash of sunshine!” I’d shoot back, shutting them down. “What do you think? Should I do the fence next?”
But those two wouldn’t let up. Every time Mr. Kane passed by, he’d toss out a jab.
“Bright enough for you, Mina?” he’d smirk, elbowing his wife, who’d laugh like a crow.
She was no better. Instead of jabs, she’d give me this pitying stare and say, “Mina, ever thought about toning it down? Maybe something… softer?”
As if my house was a loud nuisance that needed its spirit scrubbed away.
Their dislike was obvious from the start. They acted like my house’s color was a bright stain on their perfect, dull world.
One day, Mrs. Kane strutted over while I was planting tulips. Her smile was as fake as a cloudy day, and she pointed a polished nail at my house.
“That color’s just too much… it throws off the whole street, Mina! It’s got to change. How about something like… beige?” she said, like it was her mission to fix me.
Gripping my trowel, I raised an eyebrow. “Goodness, Mrs. Kane, is that what all the fuss is about? I thought a circus rolled in, judging by everyone’s faces. It’s just paint!”
“Just paint? It’s like a giant grapefruit exploded in our neighborhood! Think about your property value! You must see how… tacky it is!” she huffed, crossing her arms.
I shook my head, keeping my cool. “There’s no rule against it, Mrs. Kane. I love it yellow. It was my late husband’s favorite color.”
Her face flushed red. “This isn’t over, Mina!” she snapped, stomping off.
Mr. and Mrs. Bland couldn’t stand my cheerful yellow house. They whined to the police about the “blinding” color, griped to the city about a “safety hazard” (the hazard being happiness, I guess), and even tried to sue me! That lawsuit fizzled like a bad sparkler.
Their last stunt? Starting a “No Bold Colors” club, but my neighbors are awesome and told them to buzz off.
“Can you believe it?” my neighbor Mr. Voss boomed, striding over with a grin as big as my yellow house. “Those two thought we’d join their boring beige parade! Ridiculous!”
Mrs. Wen from across the street chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “Honey, a bright house and a happy heart—that’s the vibe here, not their dull nonsense.”
“Yeah, maybe this’ll finally quiet them down!” I sighed. Little did I know, that was just the warm-up for their meddling.
Things were about to get much worse.
I had to leave town for two weeks for work.
Two long weeks stuck in a stuffy city. Finally, the road stretched out, leading me back to my sanctuary. My yellow house, glowing like a sunflower against the neighborhood’s dull beige, should’ve been my first sight.
Instead, a cold, GRAY block loomed at the curb. I nearly drove past it. My house, the one my late husband painted with love, was now a shade fit for a forgotten basement!
I slammed the brakes, tires screeching in protest. Gray?
My heart sank, and rage boiled up. I knew exactly who was behind this unwanted makeover. Did those nosy neighbors think they could crush my spirit with a can of paint? No way. My blood was on fire.
Two weeks away, and this is what I come home to?
I marched straight to the Kanes’ house. They were the obvious culprits, the beige bullies who hated a spark of color in their boring world.
I banged on their door with a clenched fist. No answer. The gall! To think they could repaint my home, my heart, with a bucket of dull paint.
My neighbor Mr. Voss came over, shaking his head. “I saw it all, Mina. Got pictures too. Tried calling you, but it wouldn’t connect. Called the police, but the painters had a work order. Nothing they could do.”
“What work order?” I asked, my voice trembling with fury.
Mr. Voss nodded sadly. “They showed the police papers. The Kanes claimed you hired them to repaint while you were gone.”
My blood roared. “They forged my name?”
Mr. Voss nodded. “Looks like it. I’m so sorry, Mina. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t budge.”
“Show me those pictures,” I said, eyes narrowing.
He showed me photos of the painting crew working on my house. “The work order was in the Kanes’ name, paid in cash,” he added.
I gritted my teeth. “Of course it was.”
I checked my security camera footage. And guess what? The Kanes never set foot on my property. Clever. No trespassing, no charges. I called the police again, but they said the painters acted in good faith, so there was nothing they could do.
I was furious. How could these two busybodies mess with my house?
I needed a plan. Back at my house, I noticed the paint job was sloppy—bits of yellow peeked through like defiant rays of sun.
As an interior designer, I knew the old paint should’ve been scraped off first.
I stormed to the painting company’s office with my ID and house papers.
“You painted my house without my permission and did a terrible job. This could damage the exterior. I’m going to sue you,” I snapped.
The manager, Finn, was stunned and mumbled an apology. “But… we thought it was your house.”
I glared. “It IS my house, but I didn’t order any paint job!”
I was livid and demanded the work order. Sure enough, it was in the Kanes’ name. Finn was shocked when I told him the truth.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kane said it was their house and skipped the scraping to save money. They said they’d be out of town and wanted it done while they were gone,” Finn explained.
My blood boiled. “And you didn’t check with the actual owner? You didn’t look up the address or records?”
Finn looked ashamed. “We usually do, but they were so convincing. They showed us pictures of your house, saying it was theirs. I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“And you didn’t ask anyone nearby? You just painted my house?” I snapped.
Finn looked flustered. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We didn’t think to question them.”
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Well, now you know. You’re going to help me fix this. This is outrageous, and someone’s going to pay.”
Finn’s forehead was sweaty. “Absolutely. We’ll help however we can. This never should’ve happened.”
I nodded. “I want your workers to testify in court.”
When I filed a lawsuit, the Kanes had the nerve to counter-sue, saying I should pay for their paint job. Unbelievable.
In court, the painting company’s workers testified against them. My lawyer showed how the Kanes damaged my house and committed fraud by pretending to be me.
The judge listened closely, then turned to the Kanes. “You stole her identity and harmed her property. This isn’t just a civil matter—it’s criminal.”
The Kanes looked like they’d bitten into a sour fruit. They were found guilty of fraud and vandalism. They were sentenced to community service and ordered to repaint my house yellow, covering all costs, including court fees.
Outside the courthouse, Mrs. Kane hissed, “I hope you’re satisfied.”
I smiled brightly. “I will be when my house is YELLOW again!”
And that’s how I got my revenge. Sometimes, standing up for yourself pays off. What do you think?
