I had not seen my grandpa in a while, since he got very sick and rarely left his apartment. Even though we hired a nurse to help him, I felt I needed to visit. I loved him so much—he was kind and always told me stories from his younger days. The moment I got free time, I decided to drive to his place in another town. It was a long trip, but I was excited to see him and cheer him up.

When I arrived at his apartment building, I parked and looked around for his car. My grandpa’s car was old and a bit dusty, but it was special to him. I remembered the times he would drive me to the park in it, or to get ice cream. Finally, I spotted the car. But something was off. I could see a piece of paper stuck to the driver’s window. I walked over, curious, wondering if maybe it was a note from the apartment manager or a simple advertisement.

However, as I got closer, my heart sank. This was no friendly note. On the paper, in mean, jagged writing, were the words: “CLEAN THIS DIRTY PIG. IT’S AN EYESORE.” I felt tears prick my eyes. How could anyone call my grandpa a “dirty pig”? He was just a sick old man who couldn’t drive much anymore. The car had dust because he hadn’t been able to wash it recently. Anger and sadness burned inside me.

I took the paper off and folded it. My hands shook a little. This was so cruel. My grandpa had endured enough in the past year—getting sick, losing some of his independence. Now some entitled neighbor dared to insult him without even knowing his situation. I felt a surge of determination to protect him.

My head swirling with questions, I decided to go to the security office to see if they had camera footage of the parking lot. Since the apartment building had security cameras all around, I hoped they had recorded whoever left this hateful message. Inside the security office, a friendly guard greeted me. I showed him the note, explained the situation, and asked if he could check the footage from the parking lot cameras.

Sure enough, after scrolling through the recordings, the guard spotted a woman with curly hair, wearing a bright pink jacket, walk up to my grandpa’s car and tape the note on the window. The guard frowned, shaking his head. He told me her name was Nancy and that she’d been complaining about my grandpa’s “eyesore” car for months. The guard also mentioned that she’d left similar nasty notes on other people’s cars if she thought they were too old or dirty for her taste.

“Your grandpa never complained about her,” the guard said. “But I could see she was giving him trouble.” Hearing that only made me more furious. My grandpa never liked causing any scene, but he also didn’t deserve such disrespect.

I thanked the guard and left, my mind racing. I felt upset and tired, yet I wanted to act right away. Nancy lived on the tenth floor, and I was prepared to pay her a visit. But as I stood in the elevator, I realized I needed more than just words to make her understand. Words alone might not teach her empathy or manners.

So, I came up with a plan: I remembered I had a roll of duct tape and a can of spray chalk in my trunk. Spray chalk washes off easily, but it’s bright and temporary—perfect for sending a message without causing permanent damage. I reached into my car, found the duct tape and spray chalk, and then headed up to her apartment, brimming with determination.

On the tenth floor, I knocked on Nancy’s door. I tried to keep my voice calm as I stood there, heart pounding, waiting for her to answer. After a few moments, the door swung open. She was exactly as the guard described—curly hair, pink jacket, and a sneer on her face.

“Who are you?” she snapped.

I introduced myself as Mr. Thompson’s grandchild. “I believe you left this note on his car,” I said, holding up the cruel paper. “He’s very sick, and your words are hurtful.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Well, someone had to say it,” she barked. “His old car is a total mess. It makes the parking area look trashy.”

I swallowed, trying to keep my anger in check. “He is not able to drive or clean it right now because of his health. You could have asked kindly if someone could help wash it. But calling him a ‘dirty pig’ is uncalled for.”

“Whatever,” Nancy said, crossing her arms. “You should be thankful I didn’t get it towed. Now, get out of my face.”

That was all I needed to hear. “I see,” I replied curtly. “Then let me show you something.”

I turned around and walked to the elevator, not sure if she would follow. But curiosity must have gotten the better of her, because when I reached the lobby, I found Nancy behind me, wearing that same smug expression. We stepped out of the building together, and I led her to where my grandpa’s car was parked.

She stood there, arms crossed, waiting. I didn’t say a word. Instead, I took the duct tape out of my bag and carefully taped a large rectangle on the ground around where she would stand. Nancy looked confused. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

Ignoring her question, I pulled out the spray chalk. In big, bright letters around the rectangle, I wrote: “ENTITLED ZONE—MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”

Then I stepped back, letting her see my artwork. Nancy’s eyes went wide. “You can’t do that!” she yelled, pointing at the chalk.

I turned to face her. “It’s temporary chalk, and it washes right off. But I wanted you to see how it feels when someone acts like a bully without caring about someone’s situation. You didn’t even ask why my grandpa’s car was dusty. You just insulted him.”

Nancy’s face turned red, and she sputtered some insult, but I barely listened. I threw the duct tape and chalk back into my bag. “My grandfather is a kind man who fought health problems for months. He loves that car, but he’s too weak to care for it right now. You should show a little respect.”

She glared at me, speechless. The security guard, who had been watching from the door, raised his eyebrows, looking amused. I carefully peeled off the duct tape from the ground, so nothing remained but the chalk words. Then I turned around and said, “And by the way, if you keep bothering him, I won’t be so nice next time.”

I went back upstairs to my grandpa’s apartment, leaving Nancy behind, stunned and silent. My grandpa had woken up, and he smiled when he saw me. We chatted, and I told him I’d help get his car washed soon. He patted my hand, thanking me for caring.

As I left that day, I felt a strange mix of anger and satisfaction. Maybe Nancy would think twice before leaving cruel notes on other people’s cars. Maybe, if we’re lucky, she’ll learn to be kinder.

Now here’s my question: if someone insulted a loved one’s property in such a mean way, would you confront them directly, or try a quieter approach to handle the situation?