Three Trees of Revenge: How My Grandparents’ Apple Tree Got Its Justice
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 grow into three towering trees of revenge.
I’m 35, living in the house my late grandparents left me—a mix of old memories and modern updates: the kitchen tiles my grandma picked in the ’70s, the creaky step Grandpa never fixed, and most importantly, the apple tree.
That tree was everything. My grandparents planted it the day they moved in. I spent 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, clutching a coffee cup like it was a trophy. 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 asked.
“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. “It’s on my property. Doesn’t cross the fence.”
Faye frowned. “Sunlight doesn’t care about property lines, does it?”
The next day, Glenn showed up, pounding on my door.
“You really gonna act like this?” he snapped.
“It’s my grandparents’ tree. Fifty years,” I said firmly.
“So what? They’re not around to care,” he laughed.
I took a deep breath. “That tree means something. Move the hot tub.”
Faye muttered, “You’re selfish. Don’t you want to be a good neighbor?”
“I’m not cutting it down,” I replied.
Three days later, while I was on vacation, Tara—my neighbor across the street—texted:
“Hey, I think Glenn and Faye had some guys in their yard. Looked like tree work.”
My stomach sank. I called her immediately.
“They had two guys in orange vests… chainsaws… wood chipper,” she said nervously.
Eight hours later, I was driving home, heart racing. And when I arrived…
The apple tree was gone. Nothing but a splintered stump. My childhood, my grandparents’ legacy, destroyed.
I marched next door. Faye sipped wine, smiling.
“We had it taken down. You’re welcome,” she said.
Glenn smirked. “You’ll thank us when you see the yard.”
I turned and walked away—but not defeated. Planning had begun.
Round one: a certified tree expert measured the damage, documenting the tree’s historical and monetary value—$18,000. The lawyer sent a certified letter: property damage, illegal removal, trespassing.
Round two: the next morning, a landscaping crew arrived. By sunset, three towering evergreens lined the fence—legal, perfectly positioned to block their hot tub sunlight.
Glenn stormed over. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Replacing what you destroyed,” I said calmly. “Three seemed better than one.”
Faye yelled, “YOU CAN’T DO THIS! OUR HOT TUB!”
“Legal landscaping,” I replied. “Unlike stealing someone else’s tree.”
Weeks passed. The legal case moved fast, the neighbors’ anger soared, and my three privacy trees grew taller, thicker, greener—shadowing their hot tub from dawn to dusk. Permanent, living payback.
Now, I sit with my coffee under my new grove. Not the apple tree, but beautiful in its own way. I imagine my grandparents smiling beside me.
They always said: “Plant something worth keeping, and guard it with all you’ve got.”
Turns out, I did both.
And from behind the fence, I hear Faye mutter bitterly:
“God, I wish we’d never moved here.”
I just smiled and whispered:
“Me too, Faye.”