When my grandparents planted that apple tree fifty years ago, they probably never imagined it would one day spark a legal battle and destroy neighborly peace. I’m 35, living in the house they left me, slowly restoring it room by room. The kitchen tiles my grandma picked, the creaky hallway step Grandpa refused to fix, and above all, the apple tree, were pieces of my family’s history. That tree wasn’t just decoration—it was memory, tradition, and childhood summers spent climbing its branches and picking apples for pies.

Then Brad and Karen moved in next door. Brad was loud and impatient; Karen high-strung and condescending. Within three weeks, Karen showed up at my door. “Your tree is kind of a problem,” she said. “It blocks all the afternoon sun. We’re putting in a hot tub.” I explained the tree was on my property and hadn’t crossed the fence. She replied, “Sunlight doesn’t respect property lines, right?” Brad followed the next day, scowling, demanding I cut it down. I refused. The tree meant something to me. They had plenty of space.

I thought that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. Three days into a vacation, a neighbor texted me: “I think Brad and Karen had some guys in your yard. Chainsaws, wood chipper.” Panic hit. Security footage confirmed it. I drove eight hours straight to find my grandparents’ apple tree reduced to a splintered stump. I felt frozen, smelling the sickly sweet scent of fresh-cut wood, before marching to their door. Karen greeted me cheerfully, wine in hand, as if hosting a garden party. “We had it taken down. You’re welcome. Now we finally have sunlight,” she said. Brad smirked. I stood there, shaking. My tree, my memories—gone.

The first revenge came quietly, with paperwork. I hired a certified arborist to appraise the tree. He crouched beside the raw stump like it was a crime scene. “This tree would be valued over $18,000,” he said. Eighteen thousand dollars. It was mature, well-maintained, and had historical and sentimental value. I handed everything to my lawyer, who sent Brad and Karen a certified letter detailing my intent to sue for trespassing, unlawful tree removal, and property damage.

The very next morning, a landscaping crew arrived. By sunset, three towering evergreens lined the fence, fast-growing and dense enough to block every ray of sunlight from their hot tub. Brad stormed across my yard. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” he yelled. I smiled. “Just replacing the tree you destroyed. Three’s better than one.” Karen bolted outside, phone in hand. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS! OUR HOT TUB WILL HAVE NO SUN! THIS IS HARASSMENT!” I shrugged. “Nope. Legal landscaping. Unlike chainsawing a neighbor’s property.”

Weeks later, Brad and Karen were in meltdown mode. Their once-sunny backyard was now cast in permanent shade. Karen peeked through blinds, arms crossed, glaring. When she confronted me again, screaming that I was destroying their lives, I calmly replied, “Funny. That’s exactly what you did.” The legal case proceeded with the arborist’s report, security footage, and trespassing claim. With damages approaching twenty thousand dollars plus legal fees, they had no way around it.

Now, the evergreens thrive. Morning, noon, and night, their yard is shaded, their hot tub sunless, and the lessons clear: respect your neighbors, or face consequences. Every sip of coffee under my new grove reminds me of my grandparents, of their words: “Plant something worth keeping, and protect it with everything you’ve got.” I did both. And as I hear Karen muttering behind the fence, bitter and defeated, I smile and whisper: “Me too, Karen.”