She was right.
From the ridge, my trees had blocked the sunset. Now, without them, the view stretched wide and uninterrupted.
I got back in my car.
I wasn’t shouting. I wasn’t shaking.
The anger was there—but cold, focused.
I drove up to Cedar Ridge.
The entrance was exactly what you’d expect—stone signage, neat landscaping, houses with walls of glass facing west.
I found the HOA president’s house easily.
Richard Coleman.
He opened the door dressed for golf, looking mildly annoyed.
“Yes?”
“Your contractors cut down six trees on my property this morning,” I said.
He didn’t seem surprised.
“We cleared the view corridor,” he replied.
“They were on my land.”
“Our survey says otherwise.”
“It’s wrong.”
He smiled slightly, the kind of practiced smile that dismisses without arguing.
“Then you should get your own survey.”
I glanced past him—through the glass walls, straight across my land, where the trees had once stood.
“You mean your view,” I said.
He didn’t deny it.
“You don’t live up here,” he added.
I looked at him for a moment.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t.”
Then I left.
Back home, I went straight to the cabinet in the hallway.
The file was exactly where it had always been.
The easement agreement.