When I saw the cruel words scrawled across my recovering grandpa’s dusty car, a wave of fury overtook me. But discovering who was responsible was only the beginning. What I did next would teach that entitled neighbor a lesson she’d never forget.
Two months ago, I was sitting at work when my phone buzzed. It was Mom.
“Meg, it’s Grandpa,” she managed to say through trembling breaths. “He’s in the hospital. He—”
“What? Hospital?” I cut her off, completely blindsided. “What happened?”
“He had a heart attack,” Mom continued, her voice shaky. “We need to go see him right away.”
“Oh my God, Mom, is he okay?”
“I… I don’t know, Meg…”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” I said, immediately logging out of my work email and grabbing my things.
The thing about Grandpa Alvin is, he’s more than just family. He’s my rock, my confidant, my favorite person in the world. To be honest, I love him more than Mom. But shh—don’t tell her that.
That call from Mom felt like my world had turned upside down. A knot tightened in my stomach as I rushed out of the office, informing my boss in a blur that Grandpa was in serious condition.
The drive home from work is still a blur. Somehow, I made it to Mom’s place, scooped her up, and we sped to the hospital.
The 45-minute drive to the hospital felt like a lifetime. Mom was in tears the entire time, and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. Each mile felt like a punch to the gut, every red light an eternity.
When we arrived, a nurse told us that Grandpa was still in surgery. The minutes stretched into hours, each second heavier than the last.
Finally, a doctor came out.
“The surgery was successful,” he said. “But he needs plenty of rest, a heart-healthy diet, and most importantly, no stress.”
“Is he really okay?” Mom asked, barely able to contain her worry.
“He’s stable and resting now. The nurses will let you know when you can visit him.”
Grandpa was discharged a few days later, but there was a problem. He lived in another town, too far for us to check in on him every day. We hired a full-time nurse to look after him, someone who could not only monitor his health but cook for him as well. She was a godsend.
For the next two months, Grandpa stayed at home, focusing solely on his recovery. I knew he was in good hands, but last week, I realized how much I missed him.
“Mom,” I said over breakfast, “I’m going to visit Grandpa this weekend. Wanna come?”
Her face lit up immediately. “That’s a wonderful idea, honey. He’ll be thrilled to see us!”
On Saturday, I woke up early, grabbed a bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers—Grandpa’s favorite—and picked up Mom for the drive to his place. I was excited to see him, imagining his face lighting up when we walked through the door.
As we pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex, I spotted his old, beat-up car covered in dust. It was clear he hadn’t driven it since his illness. But as we got closer, something caught my eye that made my blood boil.
There, scrawled across the rear window in large letters, were the words: “YOU ARE A DIRTY PIG! CLEAN UP YOUR CAR OR GET OUT OF THE COMMUNITY. SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!”
I froze, staring in disbelief.
“Oh my God,” Mom gasped. “Who would do this?”
Anger surged through me. My fists clenched, and I could feel my cheeks burn with rage.
“Some entitled jerk with nothing better to do than harass a sick old man, that’s who,” I hissed.
Mom put her hand on my arm, her touch gentle but firm. “Honey, calm down. Let’s not upset your grandfather.”
She was right. I took a deep breath, trying to let the anger dissipate, but I couldn’t shake the image of those cruel words.
When we got to Grandpa’s door and he opened it, his smile was everything I had hoped for. “My girls!” he beamed. “What a wonderful surprise!”
“Grandpa!” I hugged him tight, forcing a smile despite the anger still churning inside me. “You look so good!”
“Well, of course I do!” he chuckled. “Even in a hospital gown, I was turning heads!”
We spent the afternoon talking and laughing, but my mind kept wandering back to that nasty message on his car. I couldn’t just let it slide. Something had to be done.
“Mom, can you stay with Grandpa for a bit? I need to take care of something,” I said abruptly, unable to ignore the urge any longer.
I headed straight for the security office in the building, where a guard was slumped behind the desk, clearly bored out of his mind.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I need to see the footage from the parking lot cameras.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, ma’am, we can’t just show that to anyone who asks.”
I leaned in, my voice low and serious. “Someone vandalized my grandpa’s car. He’s been very ill, and I need to know who did it.”
The guard hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Alright, just this once.”
Together, we reviewed the footage from the past few days. And there she was—a woman, older, with a sour expression, walking up to Grandpa’s car and scrawling that horrible message across the back window. She even looked smug about it.
“That’s Briana from 4C,” the guard said. “She’s always causing trouble.”
“Is she now?” I said through gritted teeth.
On my way out, the guard called after me. “Hey, there’s more. I overheard some of the neighbors talking. She’s been giving your grandpa a hard time for months. Complaining about every little thing.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, the anger building again.
“Yeah, like his newspaper being left out too long or his welcome mat not being perfectly straight. She even tried to get him fined for having a potted plant that was an ‘unapproved color.’”
I was beyond livid. Enough was enough.
Marching straight to Briana’s door, I knocked hard. She opened it with a scowl.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Alvin’s granddaughter,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I saw what you wrote on his car. You have no right to humiliate him like that.”
She shrugged, unimpressed. “If he can’t keep up with community standards, maybe he shouldn’t be living here.”
Before I could say anything more, she slammed the door in my face.
Fine, I thought. If she wanted to play dirty, I could too.
The next day, I printed out a screenshot of the security footage, Briana’s smug face in full view, and added a message in bold letters: “SHAME! SHAME! SHAME! Lady from Apt 4C abuses elderly neighbors.”
I taped it right in the elevator, where everyone would see it.
By the next day, the entire building was buzzing with whispers about Briana. She couldn’t step outside without people glaring at her. Her reign of terror was over.
A few days later, I visited Grandpa again. He greeted me with a hug. “Megan, my dear! Have you heard about the drama with Briana?”
I feigned ignorance. “What happened?”
Grandpa chuckled. “Someone exposed her nasty behavior. The whole building’s turned against her. Serves her right!”
I smiled to myself. Justice had been served, and Grandpa still didn’t know it was me.