It was one of those mornings where I felt completely drained—the kind of exhaustion that makes you wonder if you remembered to brush your teeth or feed the dog. Life with newborn twins was nothing short of a marathon, filled with diaper changes, feeding schedules, and far too many sleepless nights. The last thing I needed was an unexpected issue to deal with, but that’s exactly what I got when I stepped outside and found my car covered in eggs.

My initial thought was that some neighborhood kids had gotten overly excited with Halloween approaching. I figured it was just a prank, sighed heavily, and grabbed a bucket and sponge to clean it off. I was too tired to even feel upset.

Just as I started scrubbing, my neighbor Brad walked over, looking oddly pleased with himself. “That was me,” he announced proudly. “Your car was ruining the view of my Halloween decorations.”

I blinked in disbelief, trying to process his words through my haze of fatigue. My car? Blocking his view? All because of his over-the-top Halloween display of plastic skeletons, cobwebs, and a pumpkin the size of a small child? I was furious but didn’t have the energy for a confrontation. Instead, I nodded, swallowing my anger, and silently promised myself I’d find a way to teach Brad a lesson.

You see, Brad takes Halloween very seriously. Every year, he transforms his house into a haunted attraction, complete with grave markers, jack-o’-lanterns, and all the spooky extras. He loves the attention and proudly accepts compliments from neighbors who adore his elaborate setup. But while the whole neighborhood seemed thrilled, I was too exhausted to care about his “haunted house.”

The night before, I had parked in front of his house simply because it was easier to get the twins’ stroller inside that way. But it seemed Brad wasn’t happy with that. Even though he didn’t own the street, he acted like Halloween gave him exclusive curb rights.

That morning, after seeing the mess on my car, I carried one of my babies on my hip and held the other in my arms as I marched over to Brad’s door. I knocked, maybe a little harder than I intended, but I was beyond caring.

“What?” he said, crossing his arms and smirking. His house was already decked out with all his usual decorations—plastic skeletons, a fake witch on a broom, the whole shebang.

“Did you see who egged my car?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “I did it. Your car was blocking the view of my decorations.”

My jaw dropped. “You egged my car because it was parked in front of your house? You could’ve just asked me to move it, but instead, you trashed it?”

He shrugged. “How can people see my display if your car’s in the way?”

I was juggling two newborns and barely hanging on, and here he was lecturing me about “ruining the vibe.” I took a deep breath. “I park there because it’s closer to the house with the babies and stroller. But thanks for making my life harder.”

“Not my problem,” he said nonchalantly. “Just park somewhere else until Halloween’s over.”

I stood there, speechless. He was so smug, completely blind to how unreasonable he was being. I turned and stormed back to my house, furious. As I scrubbed the egg off my car, a thought hit me. If Brad wanted to play dirty, I could play smart.

That night, while rocking one of the twins to sleep, a plan began forming in my mind. Brad’s weakness was his pride—he needed his haunted house to be the best on the block. I didn’t have the energy for a full-blown feud, but revenge? That I could handle.

The next day, I approached Brad while he was adding more decorations. “Hey, Brad,” I said, faking a friendly tone. “I was thinking about your setup. Have you thought about upgrading it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Upgrade?”

“Oh, definitely. With fog machines or ghost projectors, it would look amazing. People would be talking about it for years.” I suggested a few brands I’d researched—the kind notorious for terrible reviews. He didn’t need to know that.

His eyes lit up. I knew I had him. “Thanks, I’ll look into it.”

On Halloween night, Brad’s house looked like a horror movie scene. He had invested in every gimmick I’d suggested, and a crowd gathered to see his setup. I watched from my porch, waiting for the chaos to begin.

Right on cue, the fog machine sputtered and started spewing water instead of fog, soaking everything in its path. The crowd gasped, and kids started giggling. Then, his ghost projector malfunctioned, displaying a pixelated blob instead of a spooky apparition. And to top it all off, one of his inflatables collapsed, rolling across the yard like a deflated football. Teenagers passing by noticed the disaster and threw eggs at his house for fun.

Brad was frantic, running around trying to salvage his display, but it was too late. His haunted house had turned into a joke. Watching him scramble felt like sweet justice.

The next morning, as I was feeding one of the twins, there was a knock on my door. Brad stood there, looking deflated. “I, uh, wanted to apologize,” he muttered. “I overreacted.”

I crossed my arms, letting him squirm. “Yeah, you did.”

He looked away. “I didn’t realize how hard it must be with the twins. I’m sorry.”

I allowed a small smile. “Thanks for apologizing, Brad. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

As he turned to leave, I couldn’t resist a final jab. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

Brad had no response, and I closed the door with a sense of satisfaction. In the end, Brad learned that messing with a sleep-deprived parent wasn’t the smartest move.