"Raising thieves young, are we?" My neighbor's tree drops its apples in our yard, yet he made two small children return every single one — I was ready to march over there, but my husband had a smarter way to teach him a lesson.

My six-year-old made four trips across the yard with her arms full of apples before I understood what I was watching.

She wasn't carrying them into the house.

She was carrying them to the fence.

To Dale.

The tree is his.

But a third of it hangs over our side, and every August his apples come down in our grass, our flower bed, under the swing set, in the driveway.

Nine years I've raked them.

One rotted into the paint on our shed two years ago, and the mark is still there.

Sunday after lunch, Maya and Leo went out and started dropping windfalls into an old bucket.

Nobody asked them to.

There were so many you couldn't cross the yard.

Then Dale stepped out on his side.

"Those are mine.

Bring them here."

Leo said, "What?"

"All of them.

Every one that came off my tree.

Bring them to the fence."

"They fell on our side."

"Doesn't matter where they land.

It's my tree."

And they did it.

My kids went around their own backyard picking apples out of the flower bed and out from under the swing set and carrying them over in their arms, and he took them one load at a time and dropped them into a bag.

Maya couldn't hold more than three.

That's why it took four trips.

She kept looking up at the deck, at me.

I called his name.

He didn't turn his head.

When they were done, he pulled the bag shut.

Then he looked up and saw me standing there.

"Nice.

Raising thieves young, are we?"

Maya cried.

Leo didn't, which was worse — he stood in the middle of the yard with his hands dirty, looking at the ground, ears going red.

I got two photos through the deck rail and sent them to Rob at work with one line: He stood at the fence and made them hand over every apple in our yard.

He called me forty seconds later.

"You're not going over there."

"Rob, he called our children thieves."

"I know.

And if you go, the whole street sees two adults screaming, and we end up being the problem.

I've got a better idea."

"What idea?"

"I think I know how to teach the old man a lesson.

And nobody has to say one rude word to anybody."

He was quiet for a second.

"Save those photos on your phone and don't delete them.

And send them to my personal email.