That winter, our front yard became the stage for my eight-year-old son’s favorite ritual. Every afternoon, bundled in layers, cheeks pink from the cold, and eyes sparkling with excitement, he built snowmen in the same small corner near the street. Each snowman had its own name, its own personality, and always the same red scarf pulled snugly around its neck. From the warmth of the living room window, I watched him work: rolling snow into perfect spheres, stacking them carefully, adjusting the scarf just so. It was a small act, but it radiated pure joy.
What shattered that joy were the tire tracks. Our neighbor routinely drove across that exact corner to reach his driveway, flattening my son’s creations without a second thought. I spoke to him more than once, calmly explaining how much this meant to my son, hoping for a little understanding. But he brushed it off. “It’s just snow,” he said. To my child, it wasn’t just snow—it was effort, imagination, and pride made real.
Each time the snowmen were destroyed, my son came inside quieter, trying to act brave while clearly hurt. Yet he refused to move his snowmen elsewhere. “This spot feels right, Dad,” he said. “It’s fair.” I admired his determination, even as it pained me to see his effort dismissed. I tried reasoning with the neighbor again, asking for basic respect for our property and my child’s feelings. Each conversation ended the same way—with indifference.
Then, after another snowman met its demise, my son surprised me. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t tearful. Instead, he smiled and said, “You don’t need to talk to him anymore. I’ve got an idea. It won’t hurt anyone, but it will fix the problem.”
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