Then one afternoon, my son came in calmer than I expected. He told me another snowman had been ruined, but this time he said I didn’t need to talk to the neighbor anymore. He mentioned having a plan—nothing harmful, he assured me, just something to make the problem stop. I assumed it would be a sign or a change of location. The next day, I watched him build a particularly large snowman near the edge of the lawn, close to where the street met our grass. I noticed flashes of red beneath the snow but didn’t think much of it. That evening, a loud crash and a shout from outside sent us both running to the window.

Our neighbor’s car had struck the fire hydrant at the edge of our property, sending water spraying into the air and flooding the street. The snowman had been built around it, clearly marking a boundary where cars weren’t meant to go. In the chaos that followed, it became obvious what had happened: once again, he had driven off the road and onto our lawn. No one was hurt, but the consequences were real. City crews arrived, reports were made, and the responsibility was clear. From that day on, the neighbor never crossed onto our grass again. My son kept building snowmen for the rest of the winter. Some melted, some leaned, some fell to the wind—but none were crushed by tires. And every time I looked at that corner of the yard, I was reminded that even gentle lessons, when thoughtfully placed, can make boundaries unmistakably clear.