But Greg shrugged, stating that trimming would not do and the entire tree had to go.

“You can’t cut down that tree, Greg,” I told him. “My late husband planted it. It’s a memorial.”

He did not argue. He just nodded once and walked away.

I thought the matter was settled, believing that even an arrogant neighbor would respect the memory of a deceased man.

But I was wrong.

A few weeks later, I went to Chicago.

My daughter was having her baby shower, and I was gone for exactly 5 days.

I spent those days folding tiny baby clothes and celebrating the upcoming birth, pushed by a happy anticipation.

But when I drove my old Buick back into the driveway on Sunday afternoon, my heart stopped.

The backyard was too bright, flooded with a harsh, blinding glare.

I walked to the back, and my stomach dropped.

There was no oak tree.

There was only a massive pile of sawdust and a raw, yellow stump sitting in the dirt.

The branches were gone, and Leo’s childhood swing was crushed under a pile of logs.

My husband’s living memorial had been reduced to a flat piece of wood.

I stood there for 10 minutes, unable to draw a breath, feeling a deep, hollow ache in my chest.

Greg walked out onto his back deck, holding a can of beer, looking completely unbothered.

He walked over to the fence, stating that he had done me a favor because the tree was supposedly rotting.

He claimed his pool was clean now and that the yard looked much better without the shade.

“You cut it down,” I whispered.

He shrugged it off as just a piece of wood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of cash.

He offered me 500 dollars, telling me it was more than enough for some firewood and that we should call it even.

He actually smiled, expecting me to take the bills and forget the 40 years of history he had destroyed.

I did not take the money.

I walked back inside my house, locked the door, and sat on the kitchen floor, staring at the copper watering can.

I wept for Arthur, and I wept for the tree that had guarded my home for decades.

The next morning, I called my son Leo, who was furious.