On the morning of Sunday, July 15, 2025, at 10:23 AM, the sunlight of the Los Angeles suburbs spilled over the white porch with ornate railings at Sophia’s house. I stood at the door, holding a woven tote bag, visiting her new home for the first time.

The door opened, and Sophia, wearing a mustard-colored linen dress, greeted me. “Come in, I just squeezed some fresh pineapple juice,” she said, stepping aside. As I walked in, I smelled the sweet aroma of freshly baked banana bread, mixed with coconut fragrance, and a subtle hint of “tropical air,” which was coming from the large tree in the middle of her living room.

The entryway was covered with blue and white Moroccan-style wave-patterned tiles, and the iron chandelier above swayed gently, the glass beads making a soft sound. The living room had high ceilings, white walls with a warm yellow tone, and a light oak wood floor. The beige linen sofa was piled with indigo cushions embroidered with palm tree patterns. Behind the sofa stood a 2.2-meter-high tree, its branches and leaves stretched out like a green umbrella.

The tree stood on a deep brown wooden plant stand, in a large, rustic terracotta pot with natural cracks on its surface. The trunk was thick, covered with light brown fake bark, the texture uneven. The branches spread out in all directions, with feather-like leaves layered on top of each other. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting tiny, scattered spots of light on the floor.

“Are you mesmerized?” Sophia asked, handing me a glass of pineapple juice. I snapped out of my daze and lightly touched one of the palm leaves—soft but resilient, the veins clear, the edges naturally curled. “Is this really artificial?” I asked, surprised at how lifelike it looked.

“Yes,” Sophia said with a smile. “Doesn’t it really look like a real tree?” I leaned closer to the trunk and noticed small aerial roots growing from the bark, hanging over the edge of the pot. A breeze from the window made the leaves sway gently, producing a soft rustling sound, as though I had been transported back to last year in Hawaii.

“I used to have a real palm tree, remember?” Sophia leaned against the fireplace with a smile. “Last winter, when I turned on the heat, the leaves turned yellow like dried grass, and I spent two days cleaning up the fallen leaves.” I recalled her posting a photo of the bare tree trunk back then.

“But this tree is different.” She gently brushed the lowest branches. “This new leaf, it was accidentally pressed by the movers last month, but there’s not a single mark on it.” Sunlight moved to the tree’s crown, and the leaves displayed a layered color—dark green near the stems, with a light yellowish tint on the edges. Between the branches, I could spot a few new leaves, slightly curled.

“At first, I wanted to buy a real palm tree,” Sophia poured me another glass of pineapple juice. “But I love tropical plants so much. I always feel like having a palm tree in my home brings the sunlight of the Mediterranean indoors, even on rainy days.” She pointed to the shell decorations on the coffee table. “These are ones I collected in Miami. They go perfectly with the tree.”

Her son Luca came running with a surfboard model and accidentally bumped into the plant stand. I almost spilled my juice, but fortunately, the tree just swayed slightly, and the leaves remained perfectly intact. “Look, it’s really sturdy,” Sophia laughed and pulled her son away. “A real tree’s branches would have dropped leaves by now.”

Luca pointed to the top leaves and said, “Mom says this is a magic tree that will never grow taller, so it won’t hit the ceiling.” I noticed that the “soil” in the pot was fake moss and small pebbles, feeling dry to the touch. “And it doesn’t need watering,” Sophia added. “Last time Luca spilled milk in the pot, I just wiped it clean, and the pot’s color hasn’t changed.”

I sat on the sofa sipping the pineapple juice, my gaze following the tree’s shadow. The midday sun was bright, and the palm tree’s shadow was cast on the white wall. I couldn’t help but start imagining how my living room would look. That empty corner facing west, which has been vacant for months, would be perfect for a tree like this.

In the morning light, its shadow would fall on my coffee cup; in the evening, the light from a floor lamp would give the leaves a golden edge. If I went on a two-week trip, it would still look as lively as when I left, unlike the pothos on the windowsill, which would shed leaves from lack of water.

“My mom always says I’m a plant killer,” I rotated my glass. “I either water too much or too little, and last year, that fiddle leaf fig ended up dry as straw.” Sophia handed me a piece of banana bread. “That’s why I suggest you try fake ones. This palm tree just needs a wipe-down once a week. It doesn’t need special sunlight, and it stays green no matter where you put it.”

The afternoon sun streamed in at an angle, stretching the shadow of the trunk. Sophia gently adjusted one of the branches, which leaned slightly toward the wall. “You can adjust its shape to fit any space.” I started imagining putting it in my study: the branches curling around the bookshelf, the leaves hanging near the desk lamp, so that every time I looked up from writing proposals, I would be greeted by a splash of green.

Luca was drawing under the tree, and some crayon shavings fell into the pot. Sophia lightly wiped them away, and the pot was clean again. “If it were a real tree, it would definitely attract bugs,” she laughed. Watching the tree, I finally understood its magic—it kept the most beautiful aspects of a plant, without the troublesome parts.

When it was time to leave, I changed my shoes at the entrance and turned back to glance at the living room. The sunset’s afterglow cast the palm tree’s shadow on the ceiling, and Sophia’s husband sat under the tree playing guitar, with the music blending with the rustling of the leaves.

“I’ve decided. I’ll buy an artificial palm tree when I get home.” I tied my shoes, filled with anticipation. “It would be perfect by the rattan chair on the balcony to block the sunlight.” Sophia smiled and handed me her business card. “This shop has the most realistic ones. Be sure to choose the one with new leaves.”

In the car, the air conditioner hadn’t fully cooled, but I was already imagining the south-facing corner of my balcony, with sunlight streaming through the palm leaves onto the rattan chair. Paired with a woven pot, it would match the surrounding greenery perfectly. On weekend mornings, I could sit under the tree with a newspaper and a freshly baked loaf of bread, just like at Sophia’s house.

In the rearview mirror, the white house gradually shrank in the distance, but the shadow of that palm tree remained etched in my mind.

When I got home, I immediately opened my computer and searched for “artificial palm tree.”