That winter, my eight-year-old son found endless joy in building snowmen in the same small corner of our front yard. Every afternoon after school, he rushed outside, cheeks red from the cold, carefully shaping snow into characters with names, stories, and a familiar red scarf that made each one feel complete. Watching him from the window was a reminder of how simple happiness can be. What spoiled that joy, again and again, were the tire tracks. Our neighbor routinely cut across that corner of the lawn while pulling into his driveway, flattening the snowmen without slowing down. I asked him politely to stop more than once, explaining how much it upset my child, but he brushed it off as unimportant. To him, it was “just snow.” To my son, it was something he had created with care.
