“Poisoned by Envy”
On the outskirts of a sleepy little town in the Cotswolds, there was an old street time had nearly forgotten. The pavement was more pothole than tarmac, buses ran twice a day if you were lucky, and the neighbours could be counted on one hand. But recently, things had changed—city folk, weary of concrete jungles, began flocking here. One by one, houses were bought up—some patched up, others bulldozed to make way for sprawling cottages.
Peter and Emily took the plunge too. Their little fixer-upper at the end of the lane was a steal, and they left their city flat to their daughter. They repainted, laid a proper patio, even planted a proper English garden—just as they’d always dreamed. Their son-in-law brought over a tiny spruce from a garden centre. They planted it by the fence, right where everyone could admire it.
At first, the poor thing looked like it might give up the ghost. But Peter and Emily weren’t quitters—they fed it, watered it, even talked to it like it was part of the family. And one day, it decided to grow. Slowly, but surely. That first Christmas, they decked it with fairy lights, the grandkids snapped photos, and from then on, that spruce was the star of every holiday—twinkling, grinning, forever frozen in family snaps.
Two years later, it was downright gorgeous—lush, symmetrical, with needles soft as feathers. In summer, wildflowers bloomed around it, and the couple daydreamed of a little bench to sit under its shade. Then one morning, Emily stepped outside—and froze. The spruce was gone. Just a stump. And a few feet away, dumped by the bins, lay the sad remains of their beloved tree.
Shock. Tears. Fury. Who does that—in summer, not even at Christmas?
Peter, fists clenched, marched straight to the neighbour across the lane—Margaret, a widow who’d lived in her parents’ old house forever. She’d been side-eyeing them for ages—her place was shabby but tidy, her son rarely visited. The new neighbours? An eyesore.
“Why on earth, Margaret?” Peter asked, more heartbroken than angry.
“Oh, very fancy, aren’t you!” she snapped. “Two cars! A posh patio! That bloody tree of yours was mocking me. Your grandkids screeching, trampling about—no peace to be had!”
“It was just a bit of holiday cheer… Family time…” he stammered.
“And I’m supposed to keep my windows shut all summer while yours run riot?”
He walked away. At home, he told Emily everything. She wiped her eyes and sighed.
“That’s envy, plain and simple.”
“Envy’s poison. We’re just pensioners. We just like things nice—for us, for the kids.”
A week later, their son-in-law returned with two baby spruces—short but bushy, roots intact. They planted one by the gate, and Peter carried the other… straight back to Margaret. A peace offering, a crack in her hardened heart.
“I don’t want your charity!” she hissed. “Keep it!”
As he turned to leave, an older neighbour—Ethel, pushing eighty, from a few doors down—peeked over the fence.
“You giving that tree away, love? I’ll take it.”
“But… why, Ethel? You live alone.”
“Let it grow. Maybe someday, someone kind’ll get my house. They’ll see this spruce by the gate and think fondly of me.”
Peter’s throat tightened. He and Emily planted Ethel’s spruce themselves, showed her how to care for it, promised to help. Later, Emily baked scones—one last attempt to thaw Margaret’s frost.
Peter stopped her.
“Don’t. She’ll say they’re poisoned. Better she thinks we’ve installed cameras. Every inch of the garden’s covered now.”
And so he told her, calm but firm:
“Cameras are up. One more stunt, and it’s the police. Vandalism’s a crime, you know.”
She didn’t reply. Just darted her eyes.
No more rubbish by the fence. No more muttered insults. Peace returned. And the new spruce? It grew. The old one lived on in memory—a symbol of kindness, simplicity, and the ugly twist envy can put in a person’s heart.
