Our living room renovation took an unexpected twist when our expensive, eco-friendly paint vanished—only to be found in the hands of our opportunistic neighbor. Little did he know, karma was about to ensure justice in the most satisfying way.

It all began with our home makeover project. My wife, Karen, and I wanted our living room to reflect both elegance and responsibility, so we invested in premium eco-friendly paint. It was pricey, but we told ourselves it was worth it—beautiful results without the environmental guilt.

“We’ll have it by Tuesday,” Karen said, holding up the order confirmation like a golden ticket. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Tuesday came. No paint. I checked the doorstep every hour, but the space remained stubbornly bare. When I called the delivery company, the representative swore it had been delivered that morning.

“Maybe check with your neighbors?” she suggested.

I did just that. Mrs. Thompson across the street hadn’t seen anything. Neither had the Greens next door. Everyone seemed genuinely sympathetic. But the paint had vanished into thin air.

Days later, Karen stormed into the kitchen, clutching a glossy postcard. “You won’t believe this!” she cried.

It was from our neighbor, Mr. Jenkins—the man notorious for being both cheap and arrogant. The postcard advertised: “Premium eco-friendly paint for sale. Delivered to me by mistake. Lightly used. Discount available.”

Karen’s voice shook with fury. “That’s our paint! He took it and is trying to sell it back to us!”

I marched to Jenkins’ house, postcard in hand. He answered the door with a smirk that made my blood boil.

“Interested in some paint?” he asked slyly.

“That paint is ours,” I said firmly. “Delivered to us last Tuesday.”

“Really?” he drawled, scratching his chin as if pondering the laws of the universe. “Well, I’ve used some. If you want what’s left, you’ll need to pay for it.”

Inside his garage, he proudly showed me the stacked cans—our cans, unmistakable from the labels. My anger burned, but I realized arguing was pointless. I left, silent but fuming, while Jenkins strutted away with the air of a man who thought he’d won.

Weeks passed. Jenkins boasted about his “newly painted” living room, inviting neighbors in to admire his bargain prize. Every time he smirked at me, Karen squeezed my hand to keep me from saying something I’d regret.

Then karma arrived.

One afternoon, Jenkins stood outside, red-faced, screaming into his phone. “This paint is peeling off the walls! It’s ruined everything!”

Word spread quickly. He had skipped the prep work, and now the paint was cracking and curling like old wallpaper. To make matters worse, when he tried to reorder, the price had doubled. His “deal” was about to cost him a small fortune.

Humbled, Jenkins hired a professional painter, shelling out even more money to fix his mess. The same neighbors he once bragged to now whispered behind his back.

“Serves him right,” Mrs. Green said.
“He should’ve returned what wasn’t his,” added Mr. Thompson.

As for us, we never saw our original paint again—but every time Jenkins passes me now, he avoids eye contact. I don’t need to say a word. My smile is enough.

Because sometimes, you don’t need revenge. Karma does the work for you.