Victoria left for two weeks and came home to a nightmare: her late husband’s brilliant yellow house, painted with love, had been repainted by curious neighbors.

Enraged by their conceit, she decided to retaliate by teaching them a lesson they would never forget.

Hello to all of you. Hello there, I’m Victoria, the gorgeous 57, and I have a query. After a tiring day of traveling, picture pulling into your driveway to find your home is completely different. That’s exactly what happened to me recently, and I must admit that I’m still really angry.

I live on a corner lot. Two years ago, the newlyweds Mr. and Mrs. Davis moved into the house next door. From the start, they made harsh comments about my bright yellow house.

They would laugh and say, “Whoa! No home has ever seemed so brilliant to us! Did you use your own paintbrush?

Yes, myself along with a ton of sunshine! I’d say shutting them up. “What are your feelings? After that, should I paint the mailbox?

I have to admit, though, that the two next door kept bothering me about the color of the house. Every time Mr. Davis came around, he had to crack a joke.

“Victoria, bright enough for you?” He’d sneer, nudging his wife, who’d cackle like a hyena in return.

She was still the same. Instead of cracking jokes, she would just cast me a pitying look and inquire, “Victoria, have you ever thought about changing it? Maybe something a little more objective?

Like my house was so awful that its uniqueness needed to be surgically erased.

Their disdain was instantly clear. They acted like my house’s color was rainbow sprinkles on a funeral platter.

I was planting petunias one day when Mrs. Davis came over. With a smile as bright as a wet Tuesday, she pointed at my house with her perfectly manicured finger.

“Victoria, I hate that color so much! It complements everything! It needs to be taken out. How about, for once, something like… beige? Says she.

I raised an eyebrow, a watering can in my hand.

Is it the cause of the disturbance outside, Mrs. Davis? People’s expressions gave me the impression that a UFO had made landfall. “But there’s hardly any paint there!”

“A small amount of paint? It looks like a giant banana has invaded our neighborhood! Think about how much your property is worth! You have to be able to recognize its gaudiness. She frowned.

I shook my head, trying not to get too worked up. There is no legal bar against that, Mrs. Davis. I like that it’s yellow. It was the color that my late spouse cherished.

Her face flushed beet crimson. “Victoria, there’s still a long way to go!” she said, then hurried off.

Mr. Boring, Mrs. Prim, and Proper found my happy yellow house too much to bear. They even tried to sue me! They complained to the police about the “blinding” color, to the city about a “safety hazard” (apparently happiness), and to both! That lawsuit from July melted like a snowball.

Their latest attempt was the Homeowners Against Bold Colors Association, but my great neighbors told them to shove it.

These days, the two are as well-liked at a picnic as a skunk and alienated from everyone else.

“Is it really true?” Mr. Thompson, my former neighbor, came running over to my yellow house with a smile as large as the sun. “Those two really thought we would adopt their bland style! Amazing!

Mrs. Lee chuckled across the street, her eyes wrinkled at the corners. The motto around here is “Honey, a bright house and a happy heart, not whatever shade of bland they’re peddling.”

Yes, perhaps this will finally get them to stop talking! I let out a breath. It didn’t occur to me that that was just the opening act of their enormous opera of rejection.

Prepare for the worst, as things are about to get really bad.

I had to travel out of town for work for two weeks.

I had to spend two miserable weeks in that stuffy city. Eventually the road parted and I was once again on my way to safety. My yellow house, shining brightly like a sunflower against the drab beige of the neighborhood, ought to have been the first thing I observed.

Instead, a huge GRAY brick sprang out from the curb. As I drove past it, I almost missed it. My late husband painted my house a cheerful yellow, which now seemed more appropriate for a forgotten graveyard!

I stepped on the brakes as my tires began to screech in protest. Gray?

My stomach collapsed. I was so furious that I discovered immediately who was responsible for this makeover I hadn’t asked for. Were those drab neighbors truly of the opinion that a gallon of paint could ruin my soul? Not going to happen. My heart pounded.

After spending two weeks cooped up in the city, this is what I get to return home to?

My footsteps echoed on the sidewalk as I walked straight to the Davises’ home. They were the obvious suspects—the bullies dressed in beige who were unable to tolerate any color in their dull surroundings.

I beat my closed palm against their door, almost pushing myself in. Not a reply. How audacious! To believe that my house and my soul might be changed by a can of paint.

My neighbor Mr. Thompson came over and shook his head. Victoria, I saw it all. I also obtained some photos. I tried calling you, but the call did not go through. The police were called even though the painters had a valid work order. Nothing available to them.

“A valid work order, is that what you mean?” I asked, my voice full of rage.

Mr. Thompson nodded pitifully. “They gave the police the documentation.” It appears from the Davises that you hired them to repaint while you were away.

My blood started to boil. “On the work order, they used my name in error?”

Mr. Thompson nodded. That seems to be the case. I’m really sorry, Victoria. When I tried to stop them, they would not listen to me.

I replied, squinting my eyes, “Let me see those pictures.”

He showed me photos of the painting company’s setup and development on my property. He went on, “They had a work order in the name of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Davis,’ paid in cash.”

Balling up, I did so. “Obviously, they did.”

I examined my security footage. Furthermore, what knowledge do you possess? The Davises never set foot on my land. clever. not trespassing. No costs. I called the police again, but they could not do anything since the painters had acted so kindly.

I was insane. How had these two nitwits damaged my place of residence?

I needed a plan. I didn’t realize it until I stormed back to my house. The poor quality paint job had remnants of old yellow paint visible.

I am an interior designer, so I should have removed the old paint first.

I hurried straight to the painting company’s office after grabbing my ID and my housing documents.

“Without my consent, you did a horrible job painting my house. This could harm the house’s façade. What do you know about it? I screamed, “I’ll sue you.”

Gary, the manager, apologized and said, “But… but we thought it was your house,” looking surprised and shaking with shame.

I scowled and said, “Of course, it’s MY house, but I DIDN’T ask for any paint job.”

I was so upset at this point that I insisted on having a copy of the work order. Yes, it was under the Davises’ name. The management was shocked to learn what had transpired.

In an effort to conserve money, Mr. and Mrs. Davis refused the scraping service, claiming it to be their home. Gary said, “They mentioned they’d be out of town and needed it done while they were gone.

My heart began to race. And you didn’t think to ask the actual homeowner to verify any of these information? You didn’t think to check the address or the ownership records?

Gary seemed to take his own regrets seriously. “Usually we wouldn’t, but they had a strong point. They even declared themselves to be the house’s owners when they showed it to us. My deepest apologies, ma’am.

And you didn’t ask anyone in the area? Just to paint my fucking house, you guys? I got angry.

Gary seemed upset. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There is no reason to be skeptical.

I took a deep breath and tried not to panic. Alright, so now you know. And you’ll help me to make this right. This is completely unacceptable, and accountability is required.

Drops of sweat fell into the manager’s pearly temples. Definitely, without a question. We’ll collaborate closely. We had no idea. This was not anticipated to happen.

I nodded. “I require testimony from your employees in court.”

After I filed a case, the Davises had the gall to countersue me, claiming that I ought to have paid for the paint job. Wonderful. Pathetic.

In court, the painting company’s employees provided testimony against them. My lawyer went into detail about how the Davises broke into my house and tricked me into believing they were me.

The judge looked up at the Davises after giving careful consideration. “You’ve stolen her identity and ruined her belongings. Both a criminal and a civil case are involved in this.

It seemed like the Davises had eaten some lemons. They were found guilty of fraud and vandalism. They were sentenced to community service and instructed to cover all costs—including court fees—associated with repainting my house yellow.

Mrs. Davis hissed outside the courthouse, “I hope you’re happy.”

I smiled charmingly. “I will be once my house turns yellow once more.”

That concludes the story of how I exacted my revenge. It’s sometimes advantageous to stand your ground. What are everyone’s thoughts?

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