At 74, I’ve dealt with all kinds of neighbor drama—but nothing prepared me for the day I came home to find my backyard pond gone. I’m Agnes, and I’ve lived in my ivy-wrapped house for over 20 years. My pond—dug by my great-grandfather—was the soul of our home, a place where frogs croaked, fish swam, and grandkids splashed. Then came Derek, my uptight next-door neighbor. He complained nonstop about the pond—frogs, bugs, “undesirable wildlife.” I brushed it off.

While I was away visiting family, he made his move. I returned to a dirt patch where my pond once shimmered. My neighbor across the street confirmed it: Derek had hired a crew to bury it, claiming it was a swamp.