In the third spring, everything changed. The tree bloomed, and by the end of the season, it produced twelve apples. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything.
As the years passed, the tree grew stronger. Soon it produced more apples than I could use, so I began sharing them with neighbors and children nearby. It became something quietly meaningful.
Then a new neighbor, Ryan, moved in. He complained about branches crossing into his yard and apples falling over the fence. I offered to trim everything and clean regularly, but he wanted the tree gone.
