No argument there.
But the branches didn’t care about property lines.
Nearly a third of the canopy stretched across our backyard.
Every August, apples fell into our grass.
Not five or ten.
Buckets of them.
They dropped beneath the swing set.
Into the flower beds.
Beside the shed.
Across half the lawn.
For nine years, Rob and I cleaned them up.
One apple even rotted against the side of our shed long enough to leave a permanent stain in the paint.
Dale never once offered to help.
Never thanked us for clearing the fruit from our side.
Never offered to split the harvest.
We simply dealt with it.
That was the background.
Nine years of apples.
Nine years of cleanup.
Then one Sunday afternoon, my children went outside.
Maya was six.
Leo was nine.
I was sitting on the deck drinking coffee when I noticed them carrying something across the yard.
