My name is Mara, and I grow vegetables—not for fun, not for show, but because it’s how I feed my family. Every tomato and cucumber in that backyard patch is the result of aching knees and early mornings. We don’t have extra. We barely have enough.

It started with Julian’s “Sharing Shelf,” a community pantry he set up with a cheerful sign and a Facebook post. But suddenly, neighbors treated my garden like an extension of it. First it was a few missing radishes, then full stalks of zucchini, and one day, I watched a toddler stomp through my kale bed while his mom cheered him on. No apologies. Just entitlement.

I put up signs. Built a fence. Even covered the view with a tarp. Still, people kept trespassing—stealing cherry tomatoes for anniversaries or trampling my lettuce for a hangout spot. When I told Julian, he shrugged and said, “Can’t you afford to share?” That’s when I knew: they didn’t see my work, just my produce.

So I rigged my old irrigation system, rewired the motion sensors, and waited. The first trespasser was blasted by a jet of cold water. Then another. The Facebook group exploded—calling me a psycho with a hose. I didn’t care. They finally backed off.

Then one day, a young girl came with cookies. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her brother had been stealing. She hadn’t crossed the fence. She understood.

My garden isn’t perfect—but now, it’s mine again. And finally, it’s respected.