That winter, my eight-year-old son found real joy building snowmen in the same corner of our front yard every afternoon. He shaped them carefully, named them, and wrapped each one in the same red scarf, treating them like something alive and important.

That joy kept getting crushed—literally. Our neighbor repeatedly drove across that corner of the yard, flattening the snowmen while pulling into his driveway. When I asked him politely to stop, explaining how upsetting it was for my child, he brushed it off as “just snow.”

Each time it happened, my son came inside quieter, holding back tears. I suggested moving the snowmen, but he refused. That spot mattered to him. He knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and what hurt most was the lack of respect, not the ruined snow.

I tried again to reason with the neighbor, asking for basic consideration. The response didn’t change. Convenience mattered more than boundaries, property, or a child’s feelings.

One afternoon, my son came inside calm. Another snowman was gone, he said, but I didn’t need to talk to the neighbor anymore. He had a plan—“nothing harmful, just something to stop it.” The next day, he built a large snowman near the edge of the lawn.

That evening, a loud crash echoed outside. The neighbor’s car had hit a fire hydrant hidden inside the snowman, flooding the street. No one was hurt. From that day on, the neighbor never crossed our grass again. My son kept building snowmen—and this time, they stayed standing.