Then he laughed.
“Maybe take an Uber, Carol. Women your age have no business driving anyway.”
I stood there stunned.
“That’s a rude thing to say to your neighbor.”
“It’s a true thing to say.”
Then he shut the door in my face. :chatgpt-content-reference{index=”2″}
I took a cab and tried to forget about it.
Ryan apparently wasn’t finished.
A few days later, while I was carefully parallel parking near the farmers’ market, I heard him shouting from across the street.
“Careful, Carol! That mailbox didn’t do anything to you!”
People laughed.
My face burned, but I finished parking perfectly, locked my car, and walked away without giving him the reaction he wanted.
Then things became much more serious.
One Tuesday morning, I stepped outside and discovered all four tires on my Chevy completely flat.
Each one had been deliberately slashed.
I marched across the street.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Ryan barely reacted.
He repeated the same insulting idea he had been pushing from the beginning: women—especially older women—shouldn’t be driving.
