When my partner and I moved into the multi-family house, we immediately fell in love with the shared backyard. The two-sided garden was a dream for my partner, who had always wanted to grow his own vegetables. Last year, when he asked the only other tenant who used it, Lorraine, which side she wanted, she chose the left without hesitation. That was fine by us. We took the right and got to work.

We didn’t cut corners. We dug deep, replaced the soil, added nutrients, and treated the land like it was our own little farm. By mid-season, our side was overflowing with fresh vegetables—thick, leafy greens, juicy tomatoes, and peppers with just the right amount of crunch. Lorraine’s side? A sad mess. Sparse plants, yellowing leaves, and not a single ripe fruit. She never invested in her garden. Instead, she blamed her failure on our success, claiming we had “better sunlight.”

We ignored the comments, but we should have known they were a warning.

This year, we came outside ready to prep our soil, only to find Lorraine already digging—on our side.

I felt my jaw clench. “Uh, Lorraine? That’s our garden.”

She didn’t even look up. “I figured we should switch this year. Give me a fair shot.”

My partner let out a short laugh. “A fair shot? We spent time and money on this side. You picked yours. You can’t just take ours because you don’t like what you did with yours.”

Lorraine stood up, brushing dirt off her hands. “I think it’s only right to alternate. Otherwise, it’s not fair.”

“Fair?” I snapped. “Last year, you were fine keeping your side when you thought switching wasn’t an option. Now that you see what we built, you want to take it?”

The argument escalated fast. Lorraine accused us of “hogging the good side,” conveniently forgetting she had been the one to choose first. The landlord got dragged into it, looking irritated before we even started explaining.

“I think the best solution,” he said with a tired sigh, “is to alternate sides each year.”

My stomach dropped. That meant all of our work from last season would be handed over to Lorraine, while we’d be forced to start over on the neglected, depleted soil she had refused to improve.

My partner wasn’t having it. “So, we do all the work, and she benefits? That’s not a solution. That’s rewarding laziness.”

The landlord held up a hand. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the fairest way to move forward.”

Lorraine crossed her arms, smirking in victory. I clenched my fists, feeling rage bubble in my chest. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right.

But then, that night, my partner and I came up with an idea.

Under the cover of darkness, we got to work. We spent hours quietly shoveling, moving the nutrient-rich soil we had cultivated from last year over to the neglected side. It was exhausting, but the anger kept us going. Every bag of fresh compost, every pile of dark, healthy dirt—we transported it all. By the time we were done, the “bad” side was as ready as our side had been last year, while the “good” side was stripped down to what Lorraine had left behind.

We collapsed into bed, exhausted but triumphant.

The next morning, we pretended nothing had happened. Lorraine arrived early, eager to start planting. It wasn’t long before she noticed something was off. Her soil was dry, depleted, lifeless. Meanwhile, we were working on our new side, full of the same rich, dark earth we had spent all last year improving.

I saw her frown. She crouched down, sifting the dirt through her fingers, her expression shifting from confusion to suspicion.

Then, one of our other neighbors—a nosy old man who always seemed to know everyone’s business—strolled by and casually remarked, “Y’know, I saw them switching the soil this morning. Smart move.”

Lorraine’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed.

By the afternoon, she was banging on the landlord’s door.

“They cheated!” she practically shrieked when we passed by on our way inside. “They switched the soil! That’s not fair!”

The landlord pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine. “Lorraine, they followed the rule. You wanted to switch sides, and they switched sides.”

“But they moved everything! The soil, the nutrients—”

The landlord raised an eyebrow. “You said it was about the sunlight. Well, now you’ve got the sunny side. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Lorraine stammered, realizing she had walked right into her own trap.

He sighed, shaking his head. “This wasn’t about sunlight, Lorraine. It was about greed. You wanted what they built instead of putting in the work yourself. And guess what? It turns out it was never about the side—it was about effort. Next year, we’re not switching again.”

Her face turned red, but she had nothing to say.

By the end of the season, our garden was thriving again. Lush, full, and healthy. Lorraine’s side? The same scraggly, pitiful mess as last year.

The difference was clear to everyone. The landlord’s decision stood firm: from now on, the sides were permanent.

Lorraine stopped speaking to us after that. But she didn’t need to—because every time she looked over at our garden, she knew exactly why she had failed.

So tell me, would you have done the same thing? Like and share if you think we made the right move.