The house at 847 Maple Grove carried more than walls and memories—it held a living heirloom: a fifty-year-old apple tree planted by my grandparents. That tree shaded my childhood summers, gave us crisp Northern Spy apples every fall, and stood as a legacy of love and resilience. When new neighbors moved in, their “paradise plans” clashed with my family history. They wanted my tree gone because it blocked the sun from their hot tub. I refused.
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