The call I made at five fifteen that morning was to a licensed vehicle removal company, the kind that lifts cars illegally parked on private land. I had spent the previous evening confirming what I should have checked three weeks earlier. Our driveway was private property, clearly marked, and Bernadette’s silver Corsa parked nose-in-hedge across the bottom of it met every condition for authorized removal. Three weeks of timestamped photographs proved the pattern, proved it was deliberate, and proved I had asked her, more than once, to stop.

The operator was calm and unhurried. He asked whether the vehicle was on my property, whether I had documentation, and whether the owner was present to move it. I looked out at the dark, silent house, the curtains drawn tight, not a single light on, and I said the words that had been building in me for eighteen mornings. “No, she’s asleep. Take your time.” For once, I was not the one waiting.