Mrs. Johnson, the new neighbor who had moved into our quiet community a few months ago, thought she could get away with not paying my 12-year-old son after he mowed her lawn. Little did she know, she was in for a surprise—a lesson she’d never forget, one that had the whole neighborhood talking.

Mrs. Johnson was the type of person who kept to herself. Every morning, she’d step out of her house in a crisp business suit, high heels clicking as she rushed to her car, always glued to her phone. She never waved, never stopped to chat. It seemed like she wasn’t interested in getting to know the neighbors. Honestly, I didn’t mind. I had my own life to handle, especially keeping up with my son, Ethan, who was 12 and full of energy.

One day, Ethan came home, drenched in sweat, his face flushed and his shirt soaked. “What happened?” I asked, concerned.

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

Looking outside, I saw Mrs. Johnson’s yard—it was huge, the largest in the neighborhood. Ethan had clearly worked hard. The lawn looked immaculate, with perfectly straight lines and not a blade of grass out of place.

“It took me two days,” Ethan said, still catching his breath. “But she said she’d pay me when I was finished.”

I smiled proudly. Ethan was always willing to lend a hand, and he’d been saving up for weeks to buy a food processor for his grandma’s birthday. That twenty dollars was going to help him reach his goal.

A few days passed, and I noticed Ethan seemed unusually quiet. “What’s bothering you?” I asked him one evening.

“She still hasn’t paid me,” he said softly, staring at Mrs. Johnson’s house.

“Did you ask her?” I pressed.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice shaky. “I went over twice. The first time she said she was too busy, and the second time she told me to get lost.”

I was stunned. “She said what?”

“She told me that mowing the lawn was a good lesson in hard work and that I didn’t need to be paid,” Ethan explained, his hands trembling. “She said I should be grateful.”

My blood boiled. How dare she trick my son into doing two days of hard work and then refuse to pay him? I clenched my fists, determined to stay calm for Ethan’s sake, but inside I was livid. “Don’t worry, honey,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

The next morning, I sat on our porch, watching as Mrs. Johnson, perfectly polished as always, pulled out of her driveway. I had been thinking about how to handle this, and now I knew exactly what to do.

I picked up my phone and called my friend Mark, who runs a landscaping business. “Hey, Mark,” I said. “How about you trim Mrs. Johnson’s hedges into something… a bit out of the ordinary?”

Mark laughed. “You want me to make them look weird?”

“Exactly,” I said, grinning. “Nothing destructive, just something she’ll notice.”

With step one in place, I moved to step two. I called a local mulch delivery service, pretending to be Mrs. Johnson. “Hi, this is Katherine Johnson. I need three truckloads of mulch delivered to my address. Yes, right in the driveway.”

Later that afternoon, three trucks rolled up, dumping huge piles of mulch in front of her house, blocking her driveway completely. Neighbors began to notice. A few whispered among themselves, already aware of how Mrs. Johnson had stiffed Ethan. The scene was turning into a spectacle.

Around 6:30 p.m., Mrs. Johnson’s shiny black car rounded the corner. When she saw the mountain of mulch, she slammed on her brakes. She stared in shock before slowly pulling up to the mess. Her face turned red as she stepped out, noticing the strangely trimmed hedges for the first time. She looked around and saw a few neighbors “casually” chatting, all eyes on her.

Then, her gaze locked on me. She stormed over, her heels clicking with fury. “Did you do this?” she demanded.

“Who, me?” I said innocently. “I don’t know anything about mulch or hedges.”

Her face flushed with anger. “You think this is funny?”

I set down my coffee cup and met her gaze. “Not as funny as stiffing a 12-year-old out of twenty dollars.”

She clenched her jaw, knowing exactly what I meant. “Fine,” she snapped, storming back into her house. Moments later, she returned with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

She shoved the money at me, but I shook my head. “Give it to Ethan.”

Grumbling, she handed the money to Ethan, who took it, wide-eyed. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Johnson hurried back to her car, likely planning to call someone to remove the mulch. But my work was done. I had made my point.

Ethan beamed at me. “Thanks, Mom.”

I ruffled his hair. “Don’t thank me. You earned it.”

Mrs. Johnson never asked Ethan for help again. Eventually, the hedges grew back, and the mulch was cleared, but the story of how Mrs. Johnson learned her lesson spread throughout the neighborhood.

Sometimes, people need a reminder: don’t mess with a mom protecting her child.