PART 1 — DEAN’S TREE

My husband planted our apple tree twelve years ago, only a few months before he passed away.

Dean had already been ill for some time, although neither of us liked admitting how serious it had become. Even when carrying a bag of soil left him breathless, he remained determined to plant the young sapling himself.

“This is the best place,” he said, pointing toward a sunny corner of the garden.

I reminded him that his doctor had forbidden heavy lifting.

“It’s a tree, Sloane,” he replied with a grin. “Not a weightlifting competition.”

We planted it together. In truth, I did most of the digging while Dean sat nearby, offering instructions. When we finished, he placed one hand against the thin trunk.

“Give it time,” he said. “It’ll surprise you.”

Dean died four months later.

For two years, the tree produced nothing. I nearly had it removed because looking at it brought back too much pain. Then one spring, it finally bloomed.

The following autumn, it produced twelve apples.

I counted every one.

As the years passed, the tree grew stronger. Soon, it produced enough fruit for pies, cider, applesauce, neighbours and children who came knocking to ask if they could pick one.

I always said yes.

The tree became part of the neighbourhood, but to me, it remained one of the last living things Dean had touched.

Then Ryan moved into the house next door.

Within weeks, he replaced his mailbox, removed every flower from his front garden and covered the ground with white stones. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and immediately pointed toward my backyard.

“We need to discuss your tree.”

“The apple tree?” I asked. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s messy,” he replied. “Its branches cross the fence, and fruit falls into my garden.”

I offered to trim the branches and collect anything that dropped onto his property.

Ryan shook his head.

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