As the warm glow from Mr. Collins’ backyard lights stretched across our now exposed yard, my father pocketed his phone with a heavy sigh. We stood there, the four of us—my mother, father, sister, and I—digesting the unnerving reality of what the footage suggested.
The next morning, determined to get answers, my father placed a call to the local authorities. He explained the situation, emphasizing the unauthorized removal and the conversation we had seen between Mr. Collins and the mysterious workers. The officer on the other end promised to send someone over to investigate, but the uncertainty lingered in the air.
In the meantime, my mother found solace in the garden, tending to the flower beds that had once thrived under the tree’s protective canopy. She spoke softly to the flowers as if reassuring them—and perhaps herself—that everything would be alright. My sister, younger and fiery, took to the internet, researching local laws on tree removal and property disputes. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I was grateful to have her on our side.
