My neighbor, Brian, never stopped griping about my pond, which sits right near his property. He’d always say it was a nuisance, claiming it attracted bugs, made the ground too wet, and bred frogs that croaked all night, keeping him up.

Well, one day, I got back from visiting my sister in another state and was downright horrified. My beautiful pond was completely filled in. My other neighbor told me a crew came by with orders from some company to drain it and fill it up. It was all paid for. She couldn’t stop them, and I was just devastated.

I knew Brian was behind this because he was the only person who hated my pond. It seemed like he thought I would just let it slide because I am old and live alone. Little did he know that I had a few tricks up my sleeve.

I stood at the edge of the giant dirt patch, staring where my pond used to be. In that moment, I felt countless memories swirling around in my mind: summers with my grandchildren, gentle afternoons reading next to the water, and the legacy of my granddaddy, who once sat me on his knee and explained exactly how the pond was built. When he passed, that little patch of water became a living tribute to him. Now, it was gone.

My friend and longtime neighbor, Winifred, waddled over and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Lavinia,” she said softly, “I tried to stop them, but they brought official-looking papers. They said it was some development order. I’m so sorry.”

I took a shaky breath. “I know who’s behind this,” I told her. “Brian’s been complaining about my pond for years.”

Winifred nodded slowly. “I heard he made calls about it. Something about it being an ‘eyesore.’ But I never thought he’d go this far.”

I forced a small smile. “Well, he clearly doesn’t know how determined I can be.”

It didn’t take long for my frustration to turn into a steely resolve. You see, I might look like a harmless older woman, but I still have a stubborn streak as wide as a country mile. I marched straight into my home, rummaged through my old filing cabinets, and pulled out every single document I had about that pond. Building permits from decades ago, photos of the property lines, anything that might give me some leverage. I wouldn’t go in blind—I’d do this properly.

The next morning, armed with my papers and a resolute spirit, I headed to the county clerk’s office. There I met a kind gentleman named Mr. Paxton who was intrigued by my tale of a mysteriously filled pond. He carefully examined my documents and noted that the pond was well within my property. There was absolutely no legal reason for anyone to fill it up without my authorization.

“That’s enough to open an investigation, Ms. Stokes,” Mr. Paxton said, removing his reading glasses. “I’ll reach out to the code enforcement team and see what exactly went on here.”