One of the great fantasies peddled with every perfectly manicured suburb is the myth of the “good neighbor.” The dream is clear: quiet streets, courteous nods, a shared understanding that property lines are sacred. But the reality is clearer: sometimes you win the neighbor lottery, and sometimes you share a fence line with the human embodiment of a Do Not Disturb sign that’s been set on fire. In suburbia, friendly welcomes and boundary invasions are separated by the thinnest of hedges. The first handshake might come with a borrowed tool, but by year two, you’re googling motion-sensor floodlights and the laws about homemade moats.
It takes a special kind of human to take on the role of a neighbor who makes your backyard feel like a public park, your home a point of curiosity, and your personal space an open invitation for spontaneous visits. And with this prime specimen, conversations about boundaries quickly devolve into negotiations for the suburban couple’s sanity, as the lines on their deed become more like gentle suggestions to be ignored, mowed over, or repurposed to suit someone else’s need for extra yardage. What starts as mildly odd behavior—helpful mowing, passing glances—mutates into the bizarre, along with declarations of suburban dominance.
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