The lights cast long shadows across his yard, illuminating a newly empty space where once our tree’s branches had reached over the fence. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach; an unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. My parents exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking but neither wanting to voice it. Mr. Collins had lied.
We sat at the kitchen table, the glow of the laptop screen highlighting my father’s furrowed brow. The footage was paused on Mr. Collins’ smiling face, a picture of deceit we couldn’t reconcile with the genial man we’d known for years. It felt like betrayal—not just the loss of the tree, but the erosion of trust with someone who lived just a stone’s throw away.
“We can’t let this go,” my mother said, her voice resolute. “That tree meant something. It was part of our family history.”
