He shrugged. "It's just a driveway."
That sentence told me everything. Not "sorry." Not "it won't happen again." Just, "It's just a driveway." To him, my property only mattered if he needed it.
The next morning, the Porsche was back.
Then Wednesday.
Then Friday.
Then the whole next week.
Sometimes he parked halfway across the sidewalk. Sometimes he blocked the garage completely. Sometimes he left it there for hours while I stood outside with customers trying to explain why I could not pull their cars inside.
I left notes under the windshield wiper. He ripped them off. I knocked on doors. Nobody answered. One day I finally caught him walking away and said, "You can't keep doing this."
He did not even turn around.
He just waved his hand and said, "Call someone who cares."
That afternoon, his mother came to my house. She had the full uniform: blonde hair, sunglasses, expensive purse, angry face, and that tone people use when they think volume equals authority.
"Why are you harassing my son?" she demanded.
I blinked. "He's parking in my driveway."
She looked past me at my garage and said, "You don't even have a nice car in there."
That one almost made me laugh.
"It doesn't matter what I own," I said. "It's my driveway."