I’m Emily. I’m 36, a full-time nurse, and a single mom to three very loud, very sticky, and incredible kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. Most mornings start before the sun’s up and end long after bedtime stories are whispered over sleepy yawns.

This life isn’t glamorous, but it’s ours.

I didn’t ask for drama this Halloween. I wasn’t trying to start anything. I just needed to park close enough to my house to carry a sleeping toddler and two bags of groceries without breaking my back.

But apparently, that was enough to trigger my neighbor, Derek, into full-blown holiday warfare.

The eggs were just the beginning.

Derek lives two doors down. He’s a man in his 40s with too much time and too many decorations. At first, I thought his displays were sweet — extravagant, maybe, but festive. Derek was the kind of guy who brought cheer to the block.

But over the years, it stopped being fun. Now it feels like his house is auditioning for a movie every other month.

Christmas? He blasts music through outdoor speakers and uses fake snow machines like he’s recreating a Hallmark set. Valentine’s Day? The bushes are wrapped in red garlands, and he swaps his porch lights for pink bulbs. The Fourth of July is a literal explosion; our windows rattle like we live inside a firework.

And Halloween? Oh, that’s Derek’s Super Bowl.

The kids love it, of course. Every October, they press their faces to the living room window to watch him set it up.

“Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max shouts. “And the skellytons.”

“Skeletons, baby,” I always correct him with a chuckle.

Even Noah, my three-year-old, squeals when the fog machines kick in. And I’ll admit, there’s a strange kind of magic to it — if you’re not the one living next to it.

A few nights before Halloween, I got home from a long shift. I’d been on my feet for 12 hours, charting, treating, and comforting. It was well after 9 p.m., and the sky was black, my back ached, and my landlord’s maintenance truck was once again blocking our driveway.

I sighed and pulled into the only open spot — right in front of Derek’s house.

Look, it wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t even unusual. I’d parked there plenty of times.

Now, my kids were half-asleep in their car seats, dressed in their pumpkin-printed pajamas — courtesy of my mother, who watched them after school. The thought of offloading everyone and everything only deepened my exhaustion.

“Mama, I’m cold,” Lily said, rubbing her eyes.

“I know, sweet girl,” I said, unbuckling her gently. “We’ll be inside soon.”

I slung Noah over my shoulder and reached for Max’s hand, his head drooping with sleep. Bags hung off my wrists. I was tired in that deep, bone-hollow way you can’t fix with sleep.

I didn’t even look twice at where I parked. I just assumed that it would be okay. I just assumed that Derek would understand.

The next morning, I stood at the kitchen window, pouring cereal into three mismatched bowls, when my stomach flipped.

My car — my only car — was covered in eggs and toilet paper.

And something in me, quiet and cold, snapped.

Yolk dripped from the side mirrors in thick yellow streams. Toilet paper clung to the windshield and danced in the breeze like ghostly ribbons, tangled around the wipers and hanging from the antenna. The smell hit next — sharp and sour, sticky and wrong.

I blinked at it, frozen. For a second, I honestly thought I might still be dreaming. But then my eyes followed the trail — bits of broken eggshells scattered like breadcrumbs — leading directly from Derek’s driveway.

“Of course,” I muttered.

I turned on my heel, told the kids to stay at the table, and marched outside. I didn’t bother changing out of my slippers. I didn’t even bother tying my hair back.

I banged on Derek’s door harder than I intended.

He opened it like he was expecting me — wearing an orange hoodie that was supposed to be pumpkin. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of blinking skull lights and that godawful animatronic reaper on his porch.

“Derek,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “Did you seriously egg my car?”