Not six trees.
Twelve.
“And the road?” he asked.
“When the first tree goes in,” I said.
He agreed.
Three months later, the new trees arrived.
Tall, mature sycamores, lowered carefully into place by crane.
Twelve of them.
Stronger. Denser. A new beginning.
When the last one was planted, I unlocked the road.
Cars passed again.
Some drivers glanced over.
Some nodded.
Richard didn’t look at all.
The new trees stood there—young, but steady.
They weren’t my father’s trees.
Those were gone.
But these… would grow.
And someday, they’d become something just as strong.
Now, when I sit on my porch in the evening, the view is different.
Filtered.
Layered.
Alive.
I think about what happened—not as revenge, not as victory.
Just as a lesson.
Know what you have.
Know what it’s worth.
And don’t let anyone take it from you without consequence.
Because some things, once lost, never come back the same.
But sometimes… you can grow something new in their place.
