On the edge of a quiet English village, there was an old lane left behind by time. The tarmac was cracked, buses came once in a blue moon, and the neighbours could be counted on one hand. But in recent years, things had changed—city folk, weary of concrete jungles, began flocking there. House by house was bought up—some repaired, others razed to the ground to make way for spacious cottages.
Simon and Emily made the move too. A modest cottage at the far end of the lane cost them little, while their city flat remained for their daughter. They fixed up the house, paved the garden, even planted a flowerbed—just as they’d dreamed. Their son-in-law brought them a young fir from a garden nursery. They planted it by the fence, visible from the lane.
At first, the sapling struggled, as if refusing to take root. But Emily and Simon didn’t give up—fertilising, watering, speaking to it like it was alive. Then one day, the fir began to grow. Slowly but surely. That first Christmas, they strung it with lights, the children and grandchildren took photos—and every year since, the tree shone bright, gathering joy and family memories.
Two years later, it stood tall and proud. Green, graceful, with soft needles. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple imagined a bench beneath its shade for warm evenings. But one morning, Emily stepped outside—and froze. The fir was gone. Only a stump remained. And a little further, by the bins, lay its discarded body.
Shock. Hysteria. Despair. Who would do such a thing—not in winter, not for the holidays?
Simon, fists clenched, marched across the lane to their neighbour—Margaret Whitmore. She’d long glared at them with resentment. Her house was old, inherited, but neat. A widow, her son visited rarely. The new neighbours had been a thorn in her side.
“Why, Margaret, would you do something so cruel?” Simon asked, not with anger, but sorrow.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” she snapped. “Two cars! Garden like a showroom! That tree of yours was an eyesore. Grandkids screaming, running—no peace!”
“It was Christmas… Lights… Family…” He faltered.
“So I should keep my windows shut in summer when yours are making a ruckus?”
Silently, he turned away. At home, he told Emily everything. She wiped her tears, then whispered:
“Jealousy. There’s no other reason.”
“Jealousy’s poison. We’re just pensioners—like her. We just want beauty in our lives. For us. For the grandkids.”
A week later, their son-in-law returned—with two young firs, small but full, roots intact. They planted one by the gate. The other, Simon carried… back to Margaret’s. He hoped for peace, for just a little softening of her heart.
“I don’t want your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it on your side!”
As he turned to leave, an elderly woman peered over the fence—Auntie Joan, eighty if a day, who lived two doors down.
“Giving away a tree, love? I’ll take it. Let it grow.”
“But why, Joan? You live alone…”
“So let it grow. Maybe when I’m gone, some kind soul’ll get this house—and they’ll find a fir by the gate. Remember me.”
Simon’s throat tightened. He and Emily planted the fir for Joan, taught her how to care for it, promised to keep watch. Later, Emily baked scones—hoping to mend things with Margaret.
But Simon stopped her.
“Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better she knows we’ve installed cameras. Every inch of this place is watched now.”
And it was. Simon approached Margaret again, calm but firm.
“Cameras are up. If anything else happens, we go to the police. It’s vandalism—there’s a law for that.”
She said nothing. Only her eyes darted.
No more rubbish by the fence. No more muttered insults. Peace, at last. And the new fir? It grew. The old one remained—a memory. A symbol of kindness, simplicity… and the ugliness that envy breeds.
