When Shannon moved in next door, I should have sensed that trouble was brewing. First, she painted her house a garish purple, then switched to orange, and finally settled on a shade of blue that made my eyes water. But I’m the kind of person who believes in live-and-let-live. That was, until Shannon began turning her front yard into a bikini-clad sunbathing spectacle right outside my 15-year-old son Jake’s window.
One morning, Jake came bursting into the kitchen, his face as red as a tomato. “Mom, can you, um, do something about what’s going on outside my window?” he stammered.
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