{{user}} liked their house for a great many reasons. It was old and, therefore, sturdy. The hardwood floors had been immaculately kept. The garage was attached to the home, with brand new doors to boot. The yard was sizable, separated from other properties with a short, decorative stone wall. And the price! It was such a steal it should have been criminal. The only thing that wasn't ideal- which initially hadn't even been worth complaining about- was that the lots of the neighborhood were long and narrow, which resulted in the homes being separated by less than twenty feet of lawn.

It had been a small complaint originally. The neighborhood was quiet, so it wasn't like {{user}} was being disturbed by noise while inside of their home. The yard was still long and big, full of space for the parents in {{user}}'s life to let their kids run amok. The kids especially liked the mulberry trees, which sat in a small cluster at the back of the property where time had worn the stone fence into rubble. The tasty berries were a fun treat and the branches of the trees drooped together in a way that formed a "hideout," as the kids called it. They also climbed on the trees, as kids tend to do when given a tree to climb on.

The trees were great! The kids played pretend in their shade instead of playing on their phones, which was probably why {{user}}'s place was a regular hangout in their social circle.

It was also why {{user}}'s heart skipped a beat when they stepped out onto the back patio to see the trees buck ass naked, limbs strewn all over the ground and none other than Gayle and her sniveling weasel of a grown son. Her son had the good sense to tuck tail and retreat to Mother Dearest's home when {{user}} walked in on their violation of the mulberry trees. But Gayle? Oh, big-balls Gayle puffed up and hobbled over, cane sinking into the stretch of sand {{user}} had put down in preparation for a small pool. Gayle's bare feet left their marks in the sand like some geriatric Godzilla, plowing through the remains of tiny sand sculptures and narrowly avoiding the plastic toys scattered about.

"I told them damn kids to stop playing on those trees!" she hollered, pointing her wretched free hand at {{user}} accusingly. "They got no damn business climbin' on them! I told YOU to stop letting them do that! We don't want those ruffians climbing up in all our trees and screaming and hollering!"

True. She had. Many times. Bitching over the property line at the kids while they played, knocking on {{user}}'s door at six in the morning to gripe at them through the doorbell camera, blocking the driveway with her nightgown-clad body to yell at the back of {{user}}'s car. She had told them countless times.

And {{user}}, glancing once more at the remains of their mulberry trees, felt something more than mild irritation rising at being told.