When Mrs. Johnson refused to pay my 12-year-old son after he mowed her lawn, she thought she could get away with it. What she didn’t anticipate was my determination to teach her a lesson—one that soon had the whole neighborhood talking.

Mrs. Johnson had moved in a few months ago. She was always the picture of perfection—every morning, she’d rush out in her sharp business suit, her heels clicking against the driveway as she hurried off to work. She never waved at anyone and always seemed glued to her phone, too busy to engage with the rest of us. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone’s entitled to their privacy, and I had enough going on in my own life trying to keep up with Ethan, my 12-year-old. I figured Mrs. Johnson just liked to keep to herself.

Then one day, Ethan came home exhausted. Sweat poured down his face, and his shirt was soaked through.

“Ethan, what happened?” I asked as he collapsed onto the couch.

“Mrs. Johnson asked me to mow her lawn,” he panted. “She said she’d pay me twenty bucks.”

I glanced out the window at Mrs. Johnson’s yard—it was huge, the largest in the neighborhood. Ethan had done an amazing job. The lines were perfectly straight, and the yard looked flawless.

“It took me two whole days,” he said, wiping his face with his shirt. “But she said she’d pay me once I finished.”

I smiled, proud of him. Ethan was a good kid, always looking to help out. He’d been saving up to buy a food processor for his grandma’s birthday, and this twenty dollars would get him closer to his goal.

“Did she pay you yet?” I asked.

“No, but I’m sure she will,” he replied, still hopeful.

I nodded, thinking surely Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t stiff a kid. A few days later, though, I noticed Ethan seemed quieter than usual. He wasn’t his cheerful self, and I knew something was wrong.

“What’s going on, honey?” I asked as he stared out the window toward Mrs. Johnson’s house.

“She still hasn’t paid me,” he said softly.

“Did you ask her?” I questioned.

“Yeah, I went over yesterday, but she told me she was busy and to come back later,” Ethan explained. “I went again today, and she told me to get lost. She said I should be grateful for the lesson in hard work and that I didn’t need the money.”

My heart dropped, and my anger rose. Mrs. Johnson had tricked my son into doing two days of hard work and then refused to pay him. My fists clenched as I tried to stay calm for Ethan’s sake. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it.”

The next morning, I sat on the porch, watching Mrs. Johnson pull out of her driveway. I’d been stewing on this for days, and I knew what I had to do. My son deserved justice, and I was ready to make sure Mrs. Johnson learned her lesson.

I made a call to my old friend Mark, who owned a small landscaping business. I explained the situation, and after a good chuckle, Mark agreed to help. “You want me to trim her hedges into funny shapes?” he asked, laughing.

Mrs. Johnson was meticulous about her yard, especially her hedges. Every Saturday, she was outside, pruning them into perfect, symmetrical shapes. It was her pride, a statement of her polished lifestyle. And I knew exactly how to get her attention.

“Exactly,” I replied. “Nothing destructive—just enough to make them look silly. I want her to notice.”

“Consider it done,” Mark said.

Step one was in place. Now for step two. I grabbed my laptop and found a local mulch delivery service. Doing my best impression of Mrs. Johnson’s crisp tone, I called them. “Hi, this is Katherine Johnson. I need three large truckloads of mulch delivered to my address. Yes, the entire driveway, please. Thank you.”

I hung up, feeling my heart pound. I was really doing this. And it felt right.

By mid-afternoon, three massive trucks arrived and began unloading piles of mulch right onto Mrs. Johnson’s driveway. I watched from my porch as they filled the driveway with mounds of dark mulch. There was no way she’d be able to park her car tonight.

The neighborhood started to buzz. A few neighbors peeked through their windows, whispering. They’d heard about what Mrs. Johnson had done to Ethan, and now they were seeing my retaliation.

Around 6:30 p.m., Mrs. Johnson’s shiny black car turned the corner. The moment she saw the mulch, her car screeched to a halt. She sat there, stunned, then slowly rolled forward and parked in front of the pile.

She got out, her face flushed with confusion and anger. First, she checked her hedges, staring at the strange, lopsided shapes Mark had trimmed them into. Her perfectly styled hair seemed to frizz as she realized she was being watched—neighbors had gathered, pretending to chat but really watching her reaction. Her eyes locked on me, and she marched across the street.

“Did you do this?” she demanded, her voice tight with rage.

I smiled, sipping my tea. “Me? I don’t know anything about landscaping or mulch deliveries.”

Her face turned bright red. “You think this is funny?”

I set down my cup, meeting her gaze. “Not as funny as stiffing a 12-year-old out of twenty bucks.”

She opened her mouth but had no words. She knew exactly what I meant.

“Maybe it’s just the universe teaching you a lesson,” I said. “Hard work is its own reward, right?”

Mrs. Johnson clenched her jaw, her eyes darting to the neighbors who were openly watching. She had no choice. She stormed into her house and returned a minute later with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

She handed it to me, but I shook my head. “Give it to Ethan,” I said.

She walked over to Ethan, who stood at the edge of our yard, and handed him the money. “Here,” she muttered.

Ethan took it, surprised. “Uh, thanks.”

Without another word, Mrs. Johnson hurried back to her car, fumbling with her phone, likely to call someone to remove the mulch. But I wasn’t worried—my job was done.

Ethan’s face lit up with a smile. “Thanks, Mom,” he said.

“Don’t thank me,” I said, ruffling his hair. “You earned it.”

Mrs. Johnson never asked Ethan for help again, and every time she passed the neighbors, I could see the embarrassment in her eyes. The hedges grew back, and the mulch eventually disappeared, but the story of how Mrs. Johnson learned her lesson stayed with the neighborhood for a long time.

Sometimes, the people who seem the most put-together need a reminder that you don’t mess with a mother protecting her child.