The call I made at quarter past five that morning was not to the police non-emergency line, though I had considered it. It was to a licensed removal company, the kind councils and private property owners use to lift illegally parked vehicles off private land. I had spent the previous evening quietly doing the research I should have done three weeks earlier. Our driveway was private property, clearly marked, and Bernadette’s silver Corsa parked nose-to-hedge across the bottom of it, blocking our lawful access, met every condition for authorized removal. I had three weeks of timestamped photographs proving the pattern, proving it was deliberate, proving I had asked her, more than once, to stop.

The man on the phone was calm and unhurried. He asked if the vehicle was on my property, if I had documentation, and whether the owner was present to move it. I looked out the kitchen window at the dark, silent house, the bedroom curtains drawn tight, not a single light on inside, and I said the words that had been building in me for nineteen mornings. “No, she’s asleep. Take your time.” Because for once, I was not the one waiting. For once, the person about to have her entire morning derailed, marked late, made to scramble, was going to be Bernadette. And she had no idea it was already in motion.