Margaret's smile was thin and devoid of warmth. "Our community has standards. We don't allow residents to treat their homes like fleet parking for whatever municipal job they hold. If she wants to park a work truck, she can park it outside the subdivision walls and walk."
"I'll be sure to pass along your feedback," I said, keeping my voice perfectly level.
"You're racking up fines," David chimed in, though he sounded like he was reading from a script. "It's going to get expensive."
"If you don't comply by Friday, we will begin the lien process," Margaret added. "We’ve done it before. We want to maintain a certain element in Meadowbrook. I'm sure you understand."
She handed me a manila envelope. I took it, nodded, and closed the door without another word. When Claire got home at 2:00 AM, looking exhausted, I didn't even mention it. We had more important things to worry about than Margaret's manufactured paperwork.
The campaign against us lasted seven months. Margaret assembled every piece of it herself. Every notice, every fine, every phone call.
When the vehicle tactic failed to produce a response from us, she pivoted. We received a citation for our lawn being an eighth of an inch over the limit. We received a notice for having a "suspicious package" on our porch (it was a box of dog treats).
Eventually, Margaret started calling the police.
The first time, she called the non-emergency line to report a "disturbance." A cruiser drove by, saw nothing but my sprinklers running, and left. The second time, she reported an "unauthorized gathering" because we had a family barbecue in the backyard.
Claire ignored it all. She had a demanding career, managing hundreds of personnel, budgets, and public safety crises. Margaret's petty fiefdom was beneath her notice. But Margaret mistook Claire's silence for weakness. She assumed Claire was like the Petersons, the Wynns, and the Garcias—terrified people who would eventually buckle under the weight of the HOA's relentless pressure.