Arthur used to laugh about my complete lack of gardening talent. “Plants see you coming and give up,” he would joke whenever another fern turned brown. He had always been the steady one, the man who believed that anything worth growing required patience and routine. After he passed, patience was the one thing I had too much of, and routine was what kept me moving forward.
One restless spring morning, I cleared a small, forgotten corner of the yard. It wasn’t impressive—just a modest stretch of soil—but it felt like a beginning. I planted tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers with very little confidence. I watched gardening videos late into the night, overwatered, underwatered, and made nearly every beginner mistake possible. I even caught myself talking to the seedlings as if they were listening.
To my surprise, they grew.
By the following year, that tiny plot had transformed into something beautiful. Tomato vines climbed confidently up their stakes. Strawberries spilled over their beds in bright red clusters. Zucchini leaves stretched wide like open hands. Near the fence, a small lemon tree stood in a large pot, demanding constant care. I tended to it carefully, brushing dust from its leaves and shielding it from harsh winds as if it were something fragile and precious.
The garden became more than a hobby. It became my refuge.
Each morning, I carried a cup of tea outside and stood among the plants, breathing in the scent of damp soil. In those quiet moments, I felt close to Arthur again. Sometimes I spoke to him softly, telling him about a new blossom or asking whether he thought the tomatoes were ready to pick. It was a private ritual, one that gave shape and meaning to my days.
That’s why the first sign of trouble hit me so hard.
One cool morning, I stepped outside with a basket to gather vegetables for breakfast. I stopped short when I reached the tomato row. The vines were bare. Where ripe fruit had hung the day before, there were only cleanly cut stems.
