Poisoned by Envy
On the edge of a small town in the Yorkshire Dales, there was an old street that time had forgotten. The pavement was cracked, buses came once in a blue moon, and you could count the neighbours on one hand. But in recent years, things had changed—city folks, tired of the concrete jungle, started moving in. One by one, houses were bought up—some fixed, others torn down to the ground to make way for spacious cottages.
Steven and Emily decided to make the move too. Their little house at the end of the street didn’t cost much, and they left their city flat to their daughter. They renovated the place, paved the garden, even planted a flower bed—just like they’d always dreamed. Their son-in-law brought over a tiny fir tree from a garden nursery. They planted it by the fence so it could be seen from the street.
At first, the tree struggled, like it couldn’t take root. But Emily and Steven didn’t give up—they fed it, watered it, talked to it like it was alive. And one day, it finally started growing. Slowly but surely. That first winter, they decorated it with lights, and the kids and grandkids took pictures—and from then on, every Christmas, the tree had twinkling lights, laughter, and family photos.
Two years later, it was truly beautiful—green, slender, with soft needles. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple dreamed of adding a little bench to sit under its shade in the evenings. But one morning, Emily stepped outside—and froze. The tree was gone. Just a stump. And a little farther off, by the bins, lay the discarded remains of what was once their beloved fir.
Shock. Hysterics. Despair. Who would do such a thing—in summer, not even at Christmas?
Steven, fists clenched, marched over to their neighbour across the road—Margaret. She’d been eyeing them with resentment for ages. Her house was old but well-kept, passed down from her parents. A widow, her son rarely visited. The new neighbours? Like a thorn in her side.
“Why, Margaret? Why do something so cruel?” Steven asked, not angry, just heartbroken.
“Making yourselves right at home, aren’t you!” she snapped. “Two cars! A perfect little garden! That bloody tree of yours—staring at me every day. Your grandkids screaming, running about—no peace!”
“But it was just for Christmas… the lights… family,” he stammered.
“And I’m supposed to keep my windows shut all summer while yours run riot?”
He turned and walked away. At home, he told Emily everything. She was silent for a long time, then wiped her tears and said,
“Pure envy. Nothing else explains it.”
“Envy’s poison. We’re just pensioners like her. We just want to live nicely—for ourselves and the grandkids.”
A week later, their son-in-law came back with two little firs—small but full, roots intact. They planted one by the gate, and Steven took the other… straight to Margaret. He wanted to make peace, to soften her heart just a little.
“Don’t need your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it on your side—I’ve got my own.”
As he turned to leave, another neighbour—Ethel, well into her eighties, from a few doors down—peeked over the fence.
“Giving away a tree? I’ll take it, love. Let it grow.”
“But why, Ethel? You live alone…”
“So it can grow. Maybe someday, someone kind’ll get this place, and there’ll be a little fir by the gate—remembering me.”
Steven’s throat tightened. He and Emily planted the tree for Ethel themselves, showed her how to care for it, promised to keep an eye on it. Later, Emily baked pies—she wanted to try mending things with Margaret, to take her some.
But Steven stopped her.
“Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better tell her we’ve put up cameras. Every inch of the garden’s on record now.”
And sure enough—the cameras were already running. Steven went over and said, calm but firm,
“Surveillance is up. Try anything else, and it’s straight to the police. Vandalism’s a crime.”
She didn’t say a word. Just darted her eyes.
After that, no rubbish dumped by the fence, no muttered insults. Peace returned. And the fir? The new one grew. The old one stayed in their hearts—a reminder of kindness, of simplicity, and of the ugly, twisted thing envy can make of people.
