The Poison of Envy
On the outskirts of a quiet English village stood a neglected lane, forgotten by time. The tarmac was cracked, buses ran infrequently, and neighbours were few and far between. But in recent years, everything had changed—city folk, weary of urban sprawl, began flocking here. One by one, houses were bought—some repaired, others razed to build spacious cottages.
James and Emily decided to make the move too. A quaint old house at the end of the lane came cheap, and they kept their flat in the city for their daughter. They fixed up the cottage, laid brick paving in the yard, and even planted a flowerbed—just as they’d dreamed. Their son-in-law brought a young fir from his nursery, planting it by the fence where it could be seen from the street.
At first, the sapling withered, as if reluctant to take root. But James and Emily didn’t give up—they fertilised it, watered it, spoke to it as if it were alive. And one day, it began to grow. Slowly, but steadily. That first Christmas, they decorated it with baubles, their children and grandchildren gathering for photos—a tradition that continued every year, filling the tree with lights, laughter, and family memories.
By the second year, it had become truly beautiful—lush, slender, with soft needles. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple dreamed of adding a bench to sit under its shade. But one morning, Emily stepped outside and froze. The fir was gone. Just a stump remained. And by the rubbish bin lay the discarded body of their once-beloved tree.
Shock. Tears. Despair. Who would do such a thing—not at Christmas, but in summer?
Clenching his fists, James marched to the neighbour across the road—Margaret Williams. She’d watched them with simmering resentment for months. Her house, inherited from her parents, was old but well-kept. A widow, she was rarely visited by her son. And these new neighbours—flaunting their happiness—were like a thorn in her side.
“Why, Margaret? Such cruelty?” James asked, his voice heavy with sorrow, not anger.
“Living the high life, aren’t you?” she snapped. “Two cars! A pristine garden! That tree of yours was an eyesore. Grandchildren shouting, running about—no peace!”
“We were celebrating… Decorations… Family…” he fumbled.
“And I’m to keep my windows shut all summer while yours make a racket?”
He turned away without another word. At home, he told Emily everything. She wiped her tears and whispered,
“Envy. There’s no other explanation.”
“Envy’s a poison. We’re just like her—pensioners. Only we choose to live beautifully. For ourselves and our grandchildren.”
A week later, their son-in-law returned with two more saplings—small but bushy, roots intact. They planted one by the gate, and James carried the other… straight to Margaret’s door. Hoping for reconciliation, for even a hint of softening.
“I don’t want your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it on your side—I’ve got my own.”
As he turned to leave, an older neighbour, eighty-year-old Edna from down the lane, peeked over the fence.
“Offering a tree, love? I’ll take it. Let it grow.”
“But why, Edna? You live alone…”
“So it’ll stand when I’m gone. Maybe the next owners will remember me by it.”
James’ throat tightened. He and Emily planted the sapling for Edna themselves, explaining its care, promising to watch over it. Later, Emily baked scones—hoping to mend things with Margaret by offering them.
But James stopped her.
“Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better she thinks we’ve installed cameras. Every inch of our property’s watched now.”
And so it was—the surveillance was real. James approached Margaret, calm but firm.
“We’ve got cameras now. One more incident, and it’s the police. Vandalism’s a crime.”
She said nothing. Only her eyes darted.
Since then, no rubbish dumped by the fence, no muttered insults. Peace returned. And the new fir? It thrived. The old one remained in memory—a symbol of kindness, simplicity, and the envy that twists hearts into something truly ugly.
For bitterness poisons the one who holds it—not the one it’s aimed at.
