That evening, Ben came downstairs.
He was holding a small notebook.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
He sat beside me.
“Are the trees going to die?”
My heart broke.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your dad knew what he was doing.”
He looked at the branches.
“But there aren’t any apples.”
“Not this year.”
He was quiet.
Then he asked:
“Did she take them all?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
I took a breath.
“Because she wanted something that wasn’t hers.”
Ben looked confused.
“Why couldn’t she just ask?”
“I don’t know.”
He stared at the floor.
“Dad would’ve said yes if she asked?”
I smiled sadly.
“Probably not.”
That made him laugh.
A tiny laugh.
The first real one I’d heard from him since the funeral.
“Dad loved those apples too much.”
“He did.”
“He wouldn’t let anybody take them.”
I touched his hair.
“No.”
Ben looked at me.
“Are you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to yell at her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because yelling won’t bring the apples back.”
He thought about that.
“Then what are you going to do?”
I looked toward the window.
“Make sure she understands that what she did has consequences.”
Three days later, Monica received a letter.
Not from me.
From the homeowners’ association.
Our neighborhood had rules concerning property boundaries, repeated trespassing, and damage to shared fencing.
The letter included copies of my photographs and the police incident number.
Monica was ordered to attend a meeting.
She called me immediately.
I didn’t answer.
She called again.
I ignored it.
Then she left a voicemail.
“Claire, this is ridiculous.
You’re turning everyone against me over some fruit.”
I listened to the message once.
Then saved it.
Another voicemail arrived.
