My phone started vibrating in my pocket before the sun dipped behind the trees that were no longer there. Unknown number. I let it ring twice before answering. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Daniel Whitmore did not sound smooth anymore. standing on my property. I said, “You cannot block the only access road to Cedar Ridge.” “Actually, I can.
There is no recorded easement. This is outrageous. People are trying to get home.” I glanced at the small convoy of frustration beyond the fence. “That must be inconvenient. You’re being petty.” I felt something shift in my chest at that word. “Petty would have been a complaint letter, Daniel.
This is called property rights.” There was a sharp exhale on the other end. We are prepared to compensate you fairly for the misunderstanding regarding the trees. You mean the trees you cut down without verifying ownership? It was an honest mistake. 640year-old trees is not a typo. Silence again. He recalibrated. If you do not remove that fence immediately, we will pursue legal action.
I already spoke to my attorney. I suggest you do the same. He hung up. That night, social media did what social media does. Someone in Cedar Ridge posted a photo of the fence in the neighborhood group. By dinnertime, it had spilled into the county community page. Half the comments called me a hero. The other half called me unstable.
Mara scrolled through them while sitting at my kitchen counter eating takeout Chinese. “You’re trending,” she said. “Fantastic. Maybe I’ll start a podcast.” Underneath the sarcasm, though, I felt something else creeping in. Not guilt, not exactly, but awareness. There were families up there, kids, people who had nothing to do with the decision to cut my trees.
