As a sleep-deprived mom of newborn twins, I was barely holding it together. So when I stepped outside one October morning to find my car splattered with eggs, I nearly cried. The culprit? My neighbor, Brad — the self-proclaimed “Halloween King” whose over-the-top decorations were his pride and joy. He admitted it proudly. “Your car blocks the view of my display,” he said, like that made it reasonable.

Too tired to argue, I just cleaned the mess. But later that night, while rocking the twins, an idea came to me. Brad lived for attention, so I’d give him exactly that. The next day, I casually suggested he “upgrade” his setup with new fog machines and projectors I’d “heard were amazing.” In truth, they were cheap models known for breaking down.

Halloween night arrived, and his yard filled with neighbors — until the fog machine exploded into a sprinkler show, the ghost projector glitched into a cartoon blob, and his giant Frankenstein deflated like a sad balloon. Kids laughed. Parents filmed. Brad turned beet-red, frantically trying to fix it all.

The next morning, he knocked on my door, humbled. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I overreacted.” I smiled, rocking one of the twins. “Apology accepted, Brad. Oh — and don’t worry. Your display really was unforgettable this year.”