My stomach dropped. The cucumbers I’d been saving were gone. Every ripe strawberry had disappeared. The lemon tree’s newest fruit had been stripped away. The cuts were neat and deliberate—far too precise to be the work of animals.
Someone had entered my garden.
I told myself it was a one-time incident. Maybe I had imagined how full the plants were. Maybe it wouldn’t happen again.
It did.
And again.
After the fourth time, I could no longer pretend. This wasn’t about vegetables. It was about someone crossing into the one place where I felt safe.
When I mentioned it to my daughter, Helen, she immediately urged me to call the police.
“For produce?” I said, embarrassed. “I’ll sound foolish.”
“It doesn’t matter what was taken,” she replied firmly. “It’s your property.”
I hesitated. I disliked confrontation. I didn’t want to be seen as the dramatic widow next door. But deep down, I had a suspicion.
