I counted every one.
As the years passed, the tree grew stronger. Soon, it produced enough fruit for pies, cider, applesauce, neighbours and children who came knocking to ask if they could pick one.
I always said yes.
The tree became part of the neighbourhood, but to me, it remained one of the last living things Dean had touched.
Then Ryan moved into the house next door.
Within weeks, he replaced his mailbox, removed every flower from his front garden and covered the ground with white stones. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and immediately pointed toward my backyard.
“We need to discuss your tree.”
“The apple tree?” I asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s messy,” he replied. “Its branches cross the fence, and fruit falls into my garden.”
I offered to trim the branches and collect anything that dropped onto his property.
Ryan shook his head.
“I don’t want it trimmed. I want it removed.”
“That is not happening.”
He began lecturing me about property values, insects and appearances. I reminded him that the tree stood entirely on my land.
His expression hardened.
“You may not like what happens next.”
The following day, I hired someone to cut back every branch that crossed the fence. Nothing from the tree would fall into Ryan’s garden again.
That should have ended the disagreement.
Instead, Ryan continued complaining.
He claimed the roots would damage his foundation. He said the apples attracted rodents. Eventually, he filed a formal complaint with the homeowners’ association.
Mira, the association representative, inspected the tree and found no violation.
“The tree is on Sloane’s property,” she told Ryan. “You are not allowed to damage it.”
After that, Ryan stopped speaking to me.
But he continued watching.
Whenever I worked outside, I could feel his eyes following me from his kitchen window.
That was why I quietly installed a trail camera behind a hedge, facing the tree and the garden gate.
I hoped I would never need it.
Three weeks later, I woke to find hundreds of apples scattered across my lawn.
Nearly every fruit had been ripped from the tree. Several smaller branches were broken, and the soil beneath them had been torn apart.
I was not crying over apples.
Someone had entered my property and deliberately damaged the tree Dean had planted.
Ryan appeared on his porch holding a cup of coffee.
“Did you do this?” I asked.
He looked at the ruined fruit and smiled.
“Must have been a strong wind.”
There had been no wind.
He was waiting for me to shout, cry or lose control.
Instead, I smiled back.
“It must have been.”
Then I went inside and opened the trail-camera footage.
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