She stood out from us locals, always in crisp blouses, skirts, and heels, with a sharp, judgmental glance. She bragged about loving her new home and planning to stay forever.
But six months after she moved in, I spotted a man with a clipboard wandering around the neighborhood and my backyard. He looked like a land surveyor, measuring and planting little flags in the ground.
The next day, Patrice knocked on my door, changing everything. She stood there with a stack of papers and a determined glare. “Hi, I’m Patrice. Got a minute?” she said, handing me her business card.
“Sure, what’s this about?” I replied, eyeing the papers curiously.
“I had a survey done, and your fence is nine inches onto my property,” she said, waving the documents. “You need to move it or pay me for the land it’s on.”
I was stunned. “I built that fence based on an agreement with Grant and Candice,” I explained. “We didn’t get a survey, but we all agreed on the spot.”
