When my grandparents planted that apple tree fifty years ago, they never imagined it would one day spark a legal battle, shatter neighborly peace, and lead to three towering trees of revenge.
I’m 35 now, living in the house my late grandparents left me. A quiet little place I’ve been restoring piece by piece. It’s a mix of new updates and old memories: the kitchen tiles my grandma picked 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, a sapling 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, snobby, always clutching a coffee cup like it was a trophy. They moved in next door last spring, and within three weeks, Faye was at my door.
“Hi,” she said, forcing a smile. “So… we’re planning our backyard, and your tree’s kind of a problem.”
“A problem?” I raised an eyebrow.
“It blocks all the afternoon sun,” she said, arms crossed. “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?”
The next day, Glenn showed up, pounding 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 firmly. “It’s been here fifty years.”
He laughed. “So what? They’re not around to care.”
“That tree means something,” I replied. “You have plenty of space. Move the hot tub.”
Faye chimed in from behind him. “You’re being selfish. Don’t you want to be a good neighbor?”
“I’m not cutting it down,” I said.
A tense silence hung in the air.
“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 would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Three days into my vacation, 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 everything.
My stomach dropped.
I called her immediately. “Tara, what did you see?”
She sounded nervous. “Two guys in orange vests. Chainsaws. Wood chipper. I didn’t think they’d actually—”
I cut her off and opened my home security app. The connection was weak at the cabin, but the blurry footage was enough: people in my backyard. Near the tree.
I drove eight hours straight the next morning. No music, just my fingers tapping the wheel and my heart racing.
When I pulled into the driveway, I knew. But seeing it? I wasn’t ready.
The apple tree, my grandparents’ tree, was gone. Nothing left but a rough, splintered stump surrounded by sawdust and pieces of my childhood. I stood frozen, keys in hand. The smell of freshly cut wood filled the air—sickly sweet. I walked into the yard like I was at a funeral.
Then I marched next door and pounded on their door.
Faye answered, holding a glass of wine like she was at a fancy party. “Hey there!” she chirped.
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY TREE?” I shouted.
She didn’t blink. Just sipped her wine. “We had it taken down. You’re welcome. Now we finally have sunlight.”
Glenn appeared behind her, smug as ever. “Yeah. You’ll thank us when you see how much better your yard looks.”
“That tree was on MY property. You had NO right,” I seethed.
Faye scoffed. “Oh, come on. It’s just a tree. You’re being dramatic.”
I felt something snap inside me, but I turned and walked away. Not giving up. Planning. This wasn’t over.
Glenn called after me with a grin, “Don’t forget to send us a thank-you note!”
The first revenge came quietly, with paperwork and a professional clipboard.
I called a certified tree expert—one who testifies in court about tree law. He arrived with a tape measure, camera, and clipboard, kneeling by the stump as if it were a crime scene.
After notes and measurements, he stood, brushing sawdust from his jeans.
“You know this tree was worth over $18,000, right?”
“Eighteen thousand?” I blinked.
“Easily. Old, healthy, and with family and emotional value. Trees like this aren’t common.”
That was all I needed.
I handed everything to my lawyer, who sent a certified letter: threatening a lawsuit for property damage, illegal tree removal, and trespassing.
But I wasn’t done.
The next morning, a landscaping crew arrived. By sunset, three tall evergreens stood along the fence line—fast-growing, thick, full of leaves. Planted legally, but perfectly positioned to block every bit of sunlight from their hot tub.
I admired the new shade when Glenn stormed across the yard, red-faced.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Just replacing the tree you destroyed,” I said behind my sunglasses. “Three seemed better than one.”
Faye rushed outside, phone in hand. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS! OUR HOT TUB WILL HAVE NO SUN! THIS IS HARASSMENT!”
“Nope. Landscaping. Legal. Unlike cutting down someone else’s tree,” I replied calmly.
Days later, they came stomping onto my porch, brandishing the legal letter.
“WHAT IS THIS?! EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?! FOR A TREE?!” Faye shrieked.
“You’re crazy! You can’t do this!” Glenn shouted.
I sipped my coffee. “Actually, I can. And I am. The appraisal proves it.”
Faye’s voice cracked. “WE DON’T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY! YOU’RE RUINING US!”
Glenn snapped, “WE’LL SUE YOU BACK! YOU LET THAT TREE SHADE OUR YARD!”
“Good luck,” I said. “Everything’s documented. The tree was healthy and on my land. Your move was illegal.”
Faye screamed, “YOU’RE AWFUL! ALL OVER A TREE!”
I looked her in the eye. “No, Faye. You destroyed my tree. I’m just making sure you pay for it.”
Within a week, they were in full meltdown mode.
The once-smug couple with their shiny hot tub now sat under a blanket of permanent shade. Morning, noon, evening. No warm sunlight. Just dim light and bitter silence.
Every time I stepped onto my back porch with coffee, Faye would peek through the kitchen blinds, jaw tight, lips thin. Sometimes she didn’t even hide, just standing there glaring like she could burn the trees down with her anger.
Then came round two. I was watering the new trees when I heard their sliding door slam.
“YOU’RE RUINING OUR LIVES OVER A TREE!” Faye yelled.
I wiped my hands, looked up, and said, “Funny. That’s exactly what you did.”
Glenn appeared behind her. “This is crazy! You’re turning the whole neighborhood against us!”
“No. You did that when you cut down a family tree while I was on vacation,” I replied.
Faye threw her hands up. “We said we were sorry! What more do you want?”
“I want you to learn actions have consequences. That’s it. Respect my property, and we wouldn’t be here.”
The silence was heavy. Faye looked ready to cry. Glenn looked like he wanted to punch something. Neither spoke again.
Meanwhile, the legal case moved fast. With the expert report, security footage, trespassing claim, and historical value, they faced close to twenty grand in damages plus legal fees. The law was clear.
The best part? The three privacy trees I planted are thriving.
Each week, taller, thicker, greener. By next spring, their yard will be in full shadow dawn to dusk. Permanent, living payback. And nothing they can do without another round in court.
Now, under my new grove with coffee, I hear the soft rustle of leaves—not the old apple tree, but soothing in its own way.
Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine my grandparents sitting with me.
I think they’d be proud.
They always said: “Plant something worth keeping, and guard it with all you’ve got.”
Turns out… I did both.
And as I took another sip of coffee, I heard Faye’s bitter voice behind the fence:
“God, I wish we’d never moved here.”
I didn’t turn. I just smiled and whispered:
“Me too, Faye.”