My Wealthy Neighbor Made a 90-Year-Old Woman Pay for His Lawn Care for Months – I Felt Sorry for Her, So I Decided to Teach Him a Lesson
I’ve lived on the same quiet suburban street for almost twelve years. It’s one of those neighborhoods real estate agents describe as “peaceful” and “tight-knit,” even though most of us barely wave at each other anymore. Trimmed hedges, wide driveways, and the unspoken competition of whose lawn looks the greenest by summer.
That’s where Richard comes in.
But money doesn’t always come with manners.
At the far end of the street lives Mrs. Eleanor Watkins, a 90-year-old woman who has been there longer than anyone else. Her house is small, faded blue with white shutters that haven’t been repainted in years. She walks with a cane, moves slowly, and still checks her mailbox every morning like it’s a ritual.
She’s the kind of person who remembers your name, your birthday, and what cookies you like—even if you only mentioned it once, ten years ago.
And she was being taken advantage of.
Something Felt Off
I first noticed something strange early last summer.
Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, a professional landscaping crew showed up—not at Richard’s house, but at Mrs. Watkins’. Massive trailer, riding mowers, leaf blowers that sounded like jet engines. It was… excessive.
Mrs. Watkins’ lawn is tiny. You could mow it with a push mower in fifteen minutes.
Yet these guys spent nearly an hour there, trimming, edging, blowing—then they’d pack up and head straight over to Richard’s mansion and spend another two hours working on his immaculate property.
But then I saw her writing checks.
One morning, I was outside watering my plants when Mrs. Watkins shuffled out to meet the crew foreman. She handed him an envelope, her hands shaking slightly. I heard her ask, very politely, “Is this enough this time?”
The man nodded, barely looking at her.
That’s when my stomach dropped.
The Truth Comes Out
A few days later, I brought Mrs. Watkins some homemade banana bread—an excuse, really, to check in on her.
She insisted I come inside, as she always did. Her living room smelled faintly of lavender and old books. Family photos lined the walls—black-and-white wedding pictures, grandchildren who probably lived far away now.
We chatted for a bit, and eventually, gently, I asked, “Mrs. Watkins, I hope you don’t mind me asking… do you pay for the lawn service?”
That was not the answer I expected.
“Arranged it how?”
She sighed. “He said the neighborhood association was requiring professional landscaping now. Told me it was mandatory and that he’d already hired a company to handle the whole street.”
My jaw clenched.
“There is no HOA,” I said carefully.
She frowned. “Isn’t there?”
“No,” I replied. “There never has been.”
Her face fell—not dramatically, not angrily. Just… tired. Like a realization she didn’t want to have at her age.
“Well,” she said quietly, “he told me my portion was discounted since my yard is small. Two hundred dollars a month.”
Two hundred dollars.
For a lawn smaller than my living room.
I did the math in my head. She’d been paying for months.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
The Scam
Richard had hired a landscaping company for his property. Then, to lower his own bill, he convinced them to lump Mrs. Watkins’ lawn into the contract—while making her believe she was required to pay.
She wasn’t just paying for her lawn.
She was subsidizing his.
The worst part? He knew exactly who he was targeting.
A 90-year-old woman. Polite. Trusting. Afraid of breaking rules she didn’t fully understand.
I left her house that day furious in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
And I decided Richard was going to learn a lesson.
Step One: Confirm Everything
Before doing anything, I needed proof.
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