From the first crack of dawn, the promise of a peaceful morning was shattered by the screeching cry of chainsaws tearing into sacred bark. Every growl of the engine and every splintering limb tore through my home, demolishing memories as thick as the oldest, gnarled branches of my father’s oak. They were cutting it down—half on my side, half on theirs—and nothing would ever be the same.
But justice isn’t so easily felled. As Mark gleefully orchestrates the construction of his monstrous glass-paneled home, clueless to the pain he’s wrought, he has overlooked the roots of a deeper fight. Soon, his prized panoramic view will be replaced with an image that serves as a monumental tribute to what he’s stolen—a haunting reflection of what was lost hanging perfectly framed in his great room window. Just wait until the breathtaking vista of his dreams becomes the reality of retribution—classic and poignant—a view of victory, not his, but mine.
The First Bite
The sound that woke me wasn’t the usual suburban chorus of early-morning garbage trucks or a neighbor’s overzealous lawnmower. It was a high-pitched whine, a mechanical scream that cut through the foggy peace of our cul-de-sac. I rolled over, pulling a pillow over my head. Tom, my husband, was a log beside me, immune to anything less than a fire alarm.
“Five more minutes,” I mumbled to no one.
But the whine was joined by a deeper, guttural roar. A diesel engine turning over. Then, a sharp, percussive crack. I sat bolt upright, the sheets pooling around my waist. My heart hammered against my ribs with a frantic, unearned urgency.
Our bedroom window faces the backyard, a view I’ve cherished for twenty years. It’s a modest patch of green, bordered by a six-foot privacy fence on two sides. The third side, the one to the east, had always been different. It was marked by the Oak. My Oak.
For as long as I could remember, that tree was the anchor of my world. Its thick, gnarled trunk stood sentinel right on the property line, a shared monument with the perpetually empty lot next door. Its branches, a sprawling canopy of green in the summer and a complex ink drawing against the winter sky, reached over our yard, providing shade for my son Leo’s first wobbly steps and a home for the robins that returned every spring.
My father planted it the day I was born. It was a spindly little thing in the old Polaroids, my dad grinning beside it, holding a swaddled, red-faced me. As I grew, it grew. It was the backdrop to every birthday party, the silent witness to every scraped knee and teenage heartbreak. When Dad died last year, standing under its leaves was the closest I could get to feeling his presence, his quiet strength.
The empty lot had been sold a few months ago. The buyer, a developer named Mark, was putting up one of those modern monstrosities—all glass and steel and sharp angles that looked completely alien next to our cozy, lived-in colonial. He was turning a single lot into a statement piece.
The whine started again, closer this time. A chainsaw.
I threw off the covers, my feet hitting the cold hardwood with a thud. I didn’t bother with a robe, just padded to the window in my worn t-shirt and pajama pants. The sight outside stole the air from my lungs.
Two men in bright orange vests stood at the base of the Oak. One of them held the screaming chainsaw, its blade resting against the bark. A deep, angry gash, a mouth of pale wood, was already carved into the trunk. On my side.
They were cutting it down.
A Neighborly Warning
I was dressed and out the door in under a minute, my sneakers untied, my hair a wild mess. The morning air was cool, but a hot, frantic energy propelled me across my lawn, dew soaking the cuffs of my jeans. I fumbled with the latch on the gate and burst through, stumbling onto the churned-up dirt of the construction site.
Mark was standing near a stack of lumber, looking at a set of blueprints with the swagger of a man who owned the world, or at least this small corner of it. He wore pristine work boots, jeans that had never seen a speck of actual dirt, and a tight-fitting polo shirt that showed off his gym-sculpted arms. He looked up as I approached, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before being replaced by a practiced, toothy smile.
“Morning, neighbor!” he boomed, his voice a little too loud, a little too salesman-like. “Big day for us. Breaking ground, you know?”
“Mark, what are they doing?” I pointed, my hand shaking, toward the two men at the base of my tree. The chainsaw had fallen silent for a moment, but the damage was done. The gash was deeper now, a mortal wound.
He followed my gaze and his smile didn’t falter. “Ah, yes. Just clearing a bit of the brush. Had to take that old oak out. It was right in the way of the panoramic view from the great room. Prime selling point, you know.”
My jaw went slack. “In the way? Mark, that tree is on our property line. It’s… it’s my tree.” The words sounded feeble, childish, even to my own ears.
“Well, technically, it’s on the line,” he conceded, folding his blueprints with a crisp snap. “And my survey guys said enough of it was on my side to constitute a visual obstruction. Believe me, Sarah, it’s better this way. Thing was probably a hazard. Old trees like that, they come down in a storm, take out a roof. I’m doing you a favor.”
I stared at him, trying to process the sheer, breathtaking arrogance. He was doing me a favor by destroying a fifty-year-old piece of my life.
“My father planted that tree,” I said, my voice low and trembling with a rage I was struggling to contain. “The day I was born. It’s not just ‘brush,’ Mark. It’s a memorial.”
He gave me a look that was meant to be sympathetic but landed somewhere around pitying. “I get it. Sentimental value. It’s tough. But progress is progress. We’ll be as careful as we can with the rest of your property line.” He patted my shoulder, a gesture so condescending I flinched. “Look, I’m a reasonable guy. I’ll make sure the crew cleans up any debris on your side. No problem.”
He turned back to his blueprints, dismissing me. The chainsaw roared back to life, biting into the wood with a final, furious scream.
About the Author
