**Chopped Roots**
Nina, my cousin’s wife, called me early on a Saturday. Her voice was too cheerful for seven in the morning.
“Hello, Laura! When are you coming down?”
I hadn’t even fully woken up yet, still groggy as I reached for the phone.
“Next week, I was planning. Why? Something wrong?”
“Oh, nothing major,” she said, the line muffling like she’d covered the receiver. “Just that me, Simon, and the kids have settled into your cottage. You don’t mind, do you?”
I sat up sharply. Settled in? Who invited them?
“Nina, I didn’t give anyone permission. And I certainly didn’t leave a key.”
“Don’t be like that! We’re family,” she giggled. “Simon remembered the spare key under the rock by the steps. Thought we’d stay a week. Kids love it here—fresh air and all!”
My stomach knotted. That cottage was my sanctuary, my quiet escape, the last piece of Grandma left. When James took that remote job in Scotland with no signal, the cottage was what kept me sane.
“Nina, that’s *my* home. You had no right—”
“Can’t talk now, breakfast’s burning. We’ll be out in a week, no fuss!” She hung up.
I tried calling back—busy tone. Tried again—straight to voicemail. Sent a text—read, no reply.
The whole day I was restless. Part of me wanted to drive straight there, but I had a big client pitch tomorrow—one that could land me a promotion. And arguing with Nina? Never worth it. I remembered when they crashed my housewarming—kids, their dog, finger paints on the walls, and her saying, “As long as we’re having fun!”
I waited. A week. What harm could they do?
The week dragged. The pitch went brilliantly, but I couldn’t shake the unease. Every night, I rang Nina—silence. Simon—ignored.
Friday evening, I packed a bag. Early next morning, I was off—train, bus, then the walk down the lane.
From the bend, I always saw the apple trees first—Grandma’s Cox and Bramley. Planted the year I was born. “Grow with them,” she’d say.
This time, I saw nothing. Bare earth.
The gate hung open. Inside, a fire pit scorched the lawn, a barbecue dumped on the flowerbed. But the worst—two stumps. Where the trees had been. Fresh cuts, sawdust still clinging.
“Oh, Laura!” Nina appeared, wineglass in hand. “Bit early, aren’t you? We’re not packed yet.”
I stared at the stumps. Felt hollowed out.
“What have you done?”
“Oh… chopped them. In the way. Shade, damp, and we fancied a pool.”
“A *pool*? You tore down trees Grandma nurtured for thirty years?”
“Honestly, they were ancient. Apples too tart anyway.”
Simon ambled out, beer in hand.
“Why the tantrum? Did you a favour. Cleared the place up.”
“You ruined it! And it’s *not* your call. *My* home. *Mine*.”
“We’re family,” Nina scoffed. “Don’t be selfish.”
“Pack up. Now.”
“Seriously? Over a couple of trees?”
“Over respect. For me. For people I loved.”
She made a show of stomping about, kids whining. Took two hours before they finally left. As they loaded the car, Simon tried one last jab.
“Just plant new ones. Not the end of the world.”
“They’ll bloom in thirty years. I might not even be here.”
He shrugged.
“Wait till James hears you threw us out—”
“Tell him. How you broke in. How you destroyed something irreplaceable. See whose side he takes.”
“Keys.” I held out my hand.
Grudgingly, he dropped them into my palm. The little apple-shaped keyring—Grandma’s.
“And tell the rest—none of you step foot here again. *Ever*.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No. It’s *my* house. And my *no* is final.”
They drove off. I stayed in the garden, sitting by the stumps, fingers tracing the rings like old scars. Opened my phone and texted James:
*James, they cut the trees down. I sent them away. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t stay silent. I love you.*
Hit send. Stood up. Grabbed the spade.
Dug a hole where each stump had been. Tomorrow, I’d buy new saplings. Might never see them fruit. But someone will.
And maybe they’ll learn: some things aren’t yours to break. And family doesn’t mean letting them trample your roots.
That evening, my mother-in-law messaged:
*How could you? We’re family!*
I read it. Blocked her. Then five more.
Grandma used to say, *”Anyone who vandalises your garden doesn’t deserve a seat at your table.”*
Now I understood. Too late. But I understood.
