On the edge of a quiet Cotswold village lay an old street, lost in time. The pavement was cracked, buses ran scarcely, and neighbors could be counted on one hand. But in recent years, everything changed—city folk, weary of concrete jungles, began flocking here. One by one, houses were bought—some repaired, others razed to the ground to make way for spacious cottages.
Gareth and Emily took the leap too. The weathered house at the end of the lane came cheap, and they left their city flat to their daughter. They renovated the place, paved the yard, even planted a rose garden—just as they’d dreamed. Their son-in-law brought a young holly sapling from a nursery, which they planted by the fence, visible from the lane.
At first, the little tree struggled, as if unwilling to take root. But Gareth and Emily refused to give up—watering, feeding, speaking to it like a child. And one day, it began to grow. Not quickly, but steadily. The first Christmas, they strung it with fairy lights, and their grandchildren took pictures—from then on, every Yuletide brought twinkling lights, laughter, and family photos beneath its branches.
By the second year, it had grown truly beautiful—lush, straight, with soft leaves. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple dreamed of a bench where they could sit in its shade. Then, one morning, Emily stepped into the garden—and froze. The holly was gone. Only a stump remained. And a little farther, by the rubbish bin, lay the discarded remains of their beloved tree.
Shock. Hysteria. Despair. Who would do such a thing—in summer, not winter, not the holidays?
Gareth, fists clenched, marched across the road to their neighbor—Margaret Whitmore. She’d long eyed them with disdain. Her house was her parents’, old but immaculate. A widow, her son visited rarely. And the new neighbors? Like a thorn in her side.
“Why, Margaret? Why do something so cruel?” Gareth asked, more sorrowful than angry.
“Living the high life, aren’t you?” she snapped. “Two cars! A spotless yard! That tree of yours was an eyesore. Grandchildren screaming, running—no peace.”
“But it was Christmas… The lights… The family…” he stammered helplessly.
“Must I shut my windows in summer just to escape your lot?”
Silently, he turned away. At home, he told Emily everything. She wiped her tears and said,
“Pure envy. There’s no other explanation.”
“Envy’s poison. We’re just pensioners, same as her. Only we choose to live beautifully—for ourselves, for our grandchildren.”
A week later, their son-in-law returned with two new holly bushes—small but full, roots intact. The couple planted one by the gate, and Gareth carried the other… back to Margaret’s. A peace offering, a hope to soften her heart.
“I don’t want your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it to yourself.”
As Gareth turned to leave, an elderly woman peeked over the fence—Auntie Mabel, eighty if a day, who lived a few doors down.
“Offering that holly? I’ll take it, dear. Let it grow.”
“But why, Mabel? You live alone…”
“Just let it. Maybe, after I’m gone, some kind soul will get this house—and the holly by the gate will remind them of me.”
Gareth’s throat tightened. He and Emily planted the bush for Mabel themselves, showing her how to care for it, promising to help. Later, Emily baked scones—hoping to mend things with Margaret.
But Gareth stopped her.
“Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better I tell her we’ve installed cameras. Every inch of our garden’s watched now.”
And so it was—the cameras were already up. Gareth met Margaret and said calmly but firmly,
“We’ve got surveillance now. One more thing out of place, and it’s the police. Vandalism—that’s a crime.”
She said nothing. Just darted her eyes.
No more rubbish dumped by the fence, no muttered insults. Peace returned. And the new holly? It grew. The old one remained in memory—a symbol of kindness, simplicity, and the ugliness envy breeds.
