Buying my first home at 29 felt like a dream. The small two-bedroom in Oakridge Estates wasn’t fancy, but it was mine. Three weeks in, I pulled into the driveway one hot afternoon and froze—the sound of a lawnmower buzzed from my front yard. A teenager was cutting neat lines through my grass.

When I introduced myself, he explained: “I’m Tyler. I mow lawns for fifty bucks.” Surprised, I told him I hadn’t asked for his help. His face fell, and he admitted his mom, Julie, sent him. I refused payment but thanked him anyway. The next morning, Julie stormed to my door, furious I hadn’t paid her son. She insisted my lawn “looked terrible” and said I owed $50. I stood firm. “I didn’t request the service. Next time, ask first.”

Julie stomped away, but her arrogance stuck with me. That weekend, I studied her yard—packed with flamingos, gnomes, and loud signs. By my standards, it was cluttered. Inspired, I carefully boxed up every decoration while she was out. When she returned and screamed across the street, I calmly told her, “I helped you out. The clutter was bringing down the street.” Her face turned crimson.

She sputtered about theft and trespassing, but I reminded her of her logic: she crossed into my property without permission first. Just then, Tyler arrived. I gave him $50, telling him, “Always ask first. Your work has value, but boundaries matter.” His shy smile said more than Julie’s silence ever could.

Later, Tyler helped me restore the ornaments. A week passed before cookies and a stiff note appeared on my porch. Not quite an apology, but close enough. Lesson learned: respect goes both ways, whether it’s grass or gnomes.