When my grandparents planted that apple tree 50 years ago, they didn’t know it would one day start a legal fight, ruin neighborly peace, and lead to three tall trees of revenge. I’m 35 years old, living in the house my late grandparents left me. A quiet little place I’ve been fixing up, bit by bit.
It’s a mix of new updates and old memories: the kitchen tiles my grandma chose in the ’70s, the creaky step in the hallway Grandpa never fixed, and, most importantly, the apple tree. That tree was everything. My grandparents planted it the day they moved in, fifty years ago.
The sapling came from my grandfather’s family orchard. It grew with our family. I spent countless summers climbing its branches, napping in its shade, picking apples for pies.
It wasn’t just a tree. It was history. It was them.
Then Glenn and Faye moved in. Glenn—loud, grumpy, always frowning. Faye—fussy, snooty, always clutching a coffee cup like a trophy.
They moved in next door last spring, and within three weeks, Faye was at my door. “Hi,” she said with a stiff smile. “So… we’re planning our backyard, and your tree’s kind of a problem.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“A problem?”
“It blocks all the afternoon sun,” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re putting in a hot tub, and that shade ruins the mood.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay… but the tree’s on my side.
It doesn’t cross the fence.”
Faye’s smile faded. “Yeah, but sunlight doesn’t care about property lines, does it?”
Glenn showed up the next day, banging on my door like he wanted to break it. “You really gonna act like this?” he snapped.
“It’s just a tree.”
“It’s my grandparents’ tree,” I said, standing firm. “It’s been here fifty years.”
He laughed. “So what?
It’s not like they’re around to care.”
I stared at him. “That tree means something. You have plenty of space.
Move the hot tub.”
Faye piped up from behind him. “You’re being selfish. Don’t you want to be a good neighbor?”
“I’m not cutting it down.”
A tense silence hung between us.
“I’ll bring over some apples when they’re ripe,” I added, trying to keep the peace. Faye wrinkled her nose. “No thanks.”
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t. What they did next was wrong, foolish—and something they’d regret right away. I was three days into my vacation when my phone buzzed.
“Hey, I think Glenn and Faye had some guys in their yard. Looked like tree work.” It was a text from Tara, the neighbor across the street—the one who brings me zucchini bread every fall and knows everyone’s business. My stomach dropped.
I called her right away. “Tara, what did you see?” She sounded nervous. “Two guys in orange vests.
Chainsaws. Wood chipper in the driveway. I didn’t think they’d actually—”
I cut her off.
I opened my home security app. The signal was weak, bad Wi-Fi at the cabin, but the blurry footage showed it: people in my backyard. Near the tree.
I left the next morning. Drove eight hours straight. No music.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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