When my grandparents planted that apple tree fifty years ago, they couldn’t have imagined it would one day spark a legal war, poison neighborly peace, and lead me to grow three towering monuments of revenge.
I’m 35, living in the house they left me. It’s not fancy—part renovation project, part museum of memories. The avocado-green tiles in the kitchen? Grandma’s pick in the ’70s. The creaky step in the hall? Grandpa always said he’d fix it, but never did. And the apple tree—planted the day they moved in from a sapling carried from my grandfather’s family orchard—was the crown jewel.
I grew up with that tree. I climbed its branches, swung from its limbs, ate apples until my stomach hurt, and fell asleep in its shade. It was more than a tree. It was blood, sweat, memory, and love rooted into the earth.
Then Glenn and Faye moved in.
Glenn: perpetually scowling, a man who made storm clouds jealous. Faye: prim, stiff, forever clutching her coffee like it was a prize she’d won. They arrived last spring, and within weeks, Faye was at my door.
“Hi,” she said, with a smile so brittle it could shatter. “So… about your tree. It’s kind of a problem.”
I blinked. “A problem?”
“It blocks our afternoon sun,” she replied, folding her arms. “We’re putting in a hot tub, and the shade ruins the vibe.”
I gestured toward the fence. “But it’s on my side. Doesn’t even cross the line.”
She pursed her lips. “Yeah, but sunlight doesn’t respect property lines, does it?”
The next day, Glenn banged on my door so hard I thought the hinges would break.
“You gonna be difficult?” he barked. “It’s just a tree.”
“It’s my grandparents’ tree,” I said, steady.
He smirked. “They’re not around to care anymore, are they?”
That line stuck in me like a thorn.
Still, I tried peace. “I’ll bring over some apples when they’re ripe.”
Faye wrinkled her nose like I’d offered her garbage. “No thanks.”
I thought that was the end of it.
I was wrong.
Three days into a long-overdue cabin getaway, I got a text from Tara across the street—retired teacher, neighborhood watcher, zucchini-bread saint.
“Hey… I think Glenn and Faye hired tree guys. Chainsaws. Wood chipper. Looked serious.”
My stomach dropped. I pulled up my home security app. The signal was weak, but the grainy footage showed men in orange vests in my yard, near my tree.
I drove eight hours back home, no music, just silence and my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
When I pulled into my driveway, I already knew. But knowing didn’t soften the blow.
The apple tree was gone.
In its place: a raw, jagged stump, sawdust scattered like ashes. The smell of fresh-cut wood clung to the air, sickly sweet, like mockery. My legs trembled as I stepped closer. Childhood summers. Grandma’s pies. Grandpa’s pride. All gone with the sweep of a chainsaw.
I stormed to their door and pounded. Faye opened, wineglass in hand, smile wide.
“Hey there!” she chirped.
My voice cracked. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY TREE?”
She didn’t flinch. “We had it removed. You’re welcome. Now we get sun.”
Glenn appeared behind her, smug. “Yard looks better, doesn’t it?”
My hands curled into fists. “That tree was on my property. You had no right.”
Faye rolled her eyes. “It was just a tree. Stop being dramatic.”
Glenn chuckled. “Don’t forget to send us a thank-you note.”
I turned away—not to surrender, but to scheme. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Step one: call in the experts.
A certified arborist walked my yard like a detective at a crime scene, taking measurements, notes, and photos.
After half an hour, he looked at me gravely. “You know this tree was worth over eighteen grand, right?”
“Eighteen thousand?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Easily. Age, health, rarity. And given its history? Priceless.”
That was all I needed.
My lawyer drafted a letter: property damage, trespassing, destruction of a heritage tree. Damages of $18,000 minimum. Sent certified mail to Glenn and Faye.
Step two: plant revenge.
The next morning, a landscaping crew arrived. By evening, three towering evergreens lined the fence. Perfectly within code. Thick, tall, fast-growing—designed to block every sliver of sunlight from their hot tub.
I stood on my porch, sipping coffee, watching Glenn storm across the lawn.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” he shouted.
“Landscaping,” I said, cool as ice. “Rebuilding what you destroyed. I figured three trees were better than one.”
Faye appeared, phone in hand. “THIS IS HARASSMENT! OUR YARD WILL HAVE NO SUN!”
I tilted my sunglasses. “So? Sunlight doesn’t respect property lines, remember?”
Within days, the fallout hit.
They came banging on my door, legal letter in hand, faces red.
“EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?!” Faye screeched. “FOR A TREE?!”
Glenn jabbed the papers. “You’re insane! We’ll sue you back!”
I calmly sipped my coffee. “Good luck. The law’s on my side. Unlike your chainsaws.”
Faye’s voice cracked. “We don’t have that money! You’re ruining us!”
I met her eyes. “No, Faye. You ruined yourselves the moment you touched what wasn’t yours.”
Now? Their once-bright yard is shrouded in shadow. Their hot tub sits unused, drowned in gloom. Faye peeks through the blinds, bitterness etched on her face. Glenn mopes in the yard, glaring at my trees like he could will them away.
Meanwhile, my lawyer says it’s only a matter of time before they either pay up or face court.
And me? I sit under my new evergreens, coffee in hand, listening to the whisper of their branches. They’re not my grandparents’ apple tree, but they stand tall in its honor.
Sometimes, when the wind rustles just right, I imagine Grandma and Grandpa smiling down.
They taught me to plant things worth keeping—and to guard them fiercely.
Turns out, I learned both lessons well.
And every so often, through the fence, I hear Faye mutter to Glenn, bitter and low:
“God, I wish we’d never moved here.”
I smile, sip my coffee, and whisper back, just for me:
“Me too, Faye.”