Oh, I’ve got this story about envy—it’s wild, but you’ll get it.
On the edge of a sleepy little town up in the Yorkshire countryside, there was this old street time seemed to forget. The tarmac was full of potholes, buses came once in a blue moon, and you could count the neighbours on one hand. But lately, things had changed—city folks tired of the concrete jungle started moving in. One by one, houses got snapped up—some fixed up, some torn down to make way for posh cottages.
Steve and Ellen took the leap too. Their little house at the end of the lane didn’t cost much, and they kept their flat in Leeds for their daughter. They fixed the place up, laid down patio slabs, even planted a proper English garden—just like they’d always dreamed. Their son-in-law brought over a tiny fir sapling from his nursery. They planted it right by the fence so everyone could see it from the street.
At first, the little thing struggled—like it didn’t want to take root. But Ellen and Steve wouldn’t give up—fertilised it, watered it, even talked to it like it was alive. Then suddenly, it started growing. Not fast, but steady. That first Christmas, they decked it with lights and baubles, took photos with the grandkids, and from then on, it became their family tradition—every year, more lights, more joy, more memories.
By the third year, it was gorgeous—tall, full, soft needles. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple dreamed of putting a bench under its shade. But one morning, Ellen walked outside—and froze. The tree was gone. Just a stump. And by the bins, tossed aside like rubbish—the body of their beloved fir.
Shock. Hysterics. Heartbreak. Who’d do such a thing—not in winter, not at Christmas, but now?
Steve, fists clenched, marched over to the neighbour across the lane—Margaret Davies. She’d been giving them the stink eye for ages. Her place was an old family home, nothing fancy but well-kept. A widow, her son barely visited, and the new neighbours? Just a thorn in her side.
“Margaret, why’d you have to go and do that?” Steve asked, no anger, just hurt.
“Oh, living the high life, aren’t you?” she snapped back. “Two cars! Manicured garden! That tree of yours was like a slap in the face. Grandkids screaming, running about—no peace!”
“But it was just Christmas… the lights… family,” he tried.
“And I’m supposed to shut my windows all summer when your lot’s making a racket?”
He turned without another word. Back home, he told Ellen everything. She wiped her tears and whispered, “Pure envy. There’s no other explanation.”
“Envy’s poison. We’re just pensioners, same as her. We just like making things nice—for us, for the kids.”
A week later, their son-in-law came by with two new saplings—small but sturdy, roots intact. They planted one by the gate, and Steve took the other… straight back to Margaret’s. Maybe, just maybe, it’d soften her heart.
“Don’t want your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it—I’ve got all I need.”
He was about to leave when old Gladys from two doors down—must’ve been eighty if she was a day—leaned over the fence.
“You giving that little tree away? I’ll take it, love. Let it grow.”
“But Gladys… you’re on your own—”
“So? Maybe whoever gets my place next will have a nice tree by the gate—might even remember me.”
Steve’s throat tightened. He and Ellen planted Gladys’s tree themselves, taught her how to care for it, promised to keep an eye on it. Later, Ellen baked scones—thought maybe she’d try one last time with Margaret, take some over.
But Steve stopped her. “Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better tell her we’ve put up cameras. Every inch of the garden’s watched now.”
And they had—CCTV went up that week. Steve walked over and, calm but firm, said, “We’ve got cameras now. One more thing like this, and it’s the police. Vandalism’s a crime.”
She didn’t answer. Just darted her eyes.
After that? No more rubbish dumped by the fence, no nasty comments. Peace returned. And the new tree? It grew. The old one stayed in their hearts—a symbol of kindness, of simple joys… and of the envy that turns people ugly.
