Someone had covered the bottom half of our white garage door in black paint.
I just stood there and stared.
My husband, Toby, came outside and shook his head.
“Probably teenagers.”
There was a high school a few blocks away, so the explanation made sense.
We spent all of Saturday scrubbing and repainting the door.
Our next-door neighbor, Kelsie, even wandered over while we worked.
“That’s awful,” she said. “Who would keep doing something like this?”
She stood at the edge of our driveway with her arms crossed, watching the brush strokes disappear under the fresh white.
I remember thinking she looked more upset about it than I was.
Sunday morning, the black paint was back.
Same garage door.
Same thick, messy strokes.
Now I was angry.
We asked the neighbors if they’d seen anything, but nobody had.
Kelsie said she hadn’t heard a thing all night.
So Toby and I repainted it again.
The next morning, someone had done it a third time.
That was when it stopped feeling like a random prank.
Whoever was doing this came back every single night, waited until we were asleep, and targeted only our house.
Not the Hendersons across the street.
Not Kelsie’s place right next door.
Only ours.
I ordered two small security cameras that afternoon.
Toby and I installed them after dark and made sure they were almost impossible to notice.
We tucked one beneath the roofline facing the garage, and hid the other near the front porch so it covered the yard and the street.
We didn’t tell a single neighbor.
From the sidewalk, you couldn’t even tell the cameras were there.
