It began with a courteous trim. Years ago, during a long summer, both families had laughed together over a shared lemonade beneath the very hedge that now marks their battleground. Then came the tape measure, mutters, and sharp remarks about “property lines.” Now, gardening feels like a skirmish. The hedge has withstood barbed insults, smiles edged by tension, and one set of shears wielded like a sabre. This feud is driven by more than perceptions of neatness or ownership; the hedge discreetly divides private worlds, sheltering old grudges—a silent monument to boundaries built and breaches remembered.