PART 1 — THE DEAN TREE
My husband planted our apple tree twelve years ago, a few months before he passed away. Trees
Dean had been sick for a while, though none of us wanted to admit the gravity of the situation. Even when carrying a bag of dirt left it breathless, he was still determined to plant the seedling himself.
“This is the best place,” he said, pointing to a sunny corner of the garden.
I reminded him that his doctor had forbidden him to lift weights.
“It’s a tree, Sloane,” he replied with a smile. It’s not a weightlifting competition.
We plant together. Actually, I was the one who dug most of the time, while Dean stayed close by giving instructions. When we finished, he put a hand on the thin trunk.
“Give him time,” he said. “You’ll be surprised.”
Dean passed away four months later.
For two years, the tree did not bear fruit. I was about to rip it out of the bud, because seeing it caused me a lot of pain. Then, a spring, finally flourished. Trees
The following autumn, it produced twelve apples.
I counted them one by one.
Over the years, the tree became stronger. Soon, he produced enough fruit for cakes, cider, apple compote, for the neighbors and for the children knocking on the door to ask if they could pick an apple.
I always said yes.
The tree became part of the neighborhood, but for me, it remained one of the last living things Dean touched.
So Ryan moved in to the house next door.
Within a few weeks, he changed the mailbox, ripped all the flowers from the front garden and covered the floor with white stones. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and immediately pointed at my backyard.
“We have to talk about your tree.”
“The apple tree?” I asked. It’s beautiful.
“It’s a disaster,” he replied. The branches fall above the fence and the fruit falls into my garden.
I offered to prune the branches and collect anything that fell on their property.
Ryan denied with his head.
“I don’t want him cut. I want him removed.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
He began to give me a talk about the value of real estate, insects and appearance. I reminded him that the tree was completely on my property.
His expression hardened.
“You may not like what happens next.”
The next day, I hired someone to prune all the branches that crossed the fence. Thus, no branch of the tree would fall back into Ryan’s garden.
That should have ended the discussion.
Ryan continued to complain.
He claimed that the roots would damage the foundations of his home. He also said that apples attracted rodents. Finally, he filed a formal complaint with the neighborhood association. Homey garden
Look, the representative of the association, inspected the tree and found no irregularity.
“The tree is on Sloane’s property,” he told Ryan. “You don’t have permission to harm him.”
After that, Ryan stopped talking to me.
But he kept watching.
Whenever I worked outdoors, I felt his gaze following me from the kitchen window.
That’s why I quietly installed a surveillance camera behind a hedge, pointing toward the tree and the garden door.
I hoped I never needed this.
Three weeks later, I woke up and found hundreds of apples scattered across my lawn.
Almost all the fruit had been uprooted from the tree. Several smaller branches were broken and the land beneath was removed.
I wasn’t crying for a few blocks.
Someone entered my property and deliberately damaged the tree Dean had planted.
Ryan appeared on the balcony with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Did you do this?” I asked.
He looked at the rotten fruit and smiled.
“It must have been a very strong wind.”
It was not windy.
He expected me to scream, cry or lose control.
Instead, he smiles back.
“It must have been like that.”
So I went in and opened the surveillance camera footage.
