Kara had always been spoiled—her family softened every “no” to avoid her tears. I loved her brother Colin, and our quiet life together felt steady, anchored by my little house and the garden I built with my own hands. The roses, planted for my mother, were my softest spot.
When Kara’s wedding venue flooded, her family begged to use my yard for the ceremony. I agreed—on one condition: nothing could be changed. They promised.
Two days later, I returned to find my fence destroyed, the flower beds uprooted, my trellis smashed, and my roses hacked apart for the rental arch. Kara was thrilled; I was devastated.
Colin laughed it off. I didn’t. I called the court, filed for damages, and secured a judgment the morning of her wedding.
At the reception, I presented the court-ordered bill publicly. The room fell silent. Colin was furious; I slipped off my engagement ring and left.
The next weeks brought apologies in cash and a quiet breakup.
I spent my weekends rebuilding, neighbors helping, the scars in the garden now part of its beauty. Kara got her wedding. I got my yard back—and most importantly, myself.
