I’m 35 years old, living in the house my late grandparents left me. A quiet little place I’ve been fixing up, bit by bit. It’s a mix of new updates and old memories: the kitchen tiles my grandma chose 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, fifty years ago. The sapling came 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, snooty, always clutching a coffee cup like a trophy. They moved in next door last spring, and within three weeks, Faye was at my door.

“Hi,” she said with a stiff smile. “So… we’re planning our backyard, and your tree’s kind of a problem.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A problem?”

“It blocks all the afternoon sun,” she said, crossing her arms. “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?”

Glenn showed up the next day, banging on my door like he wanted to break it.

“You really gonna act like this?” he snapped. “It’s just a tree.”