After that, the thefts stopped. Word spread through the neighborhood, and Denise found herself increasingly isolated. My fence line grew peaceful again.
That autumn, as I gathered the last tomatoes of the season, I felt something shift inside me. Standing up for myself had restored more than my harvest. It had restored my confidence.
Denise had mistaken solitude for weakness.
She was wrong.
Grief had not diminished me. It had clarified what mattered. And my garden—my sanctuary—was something I would always protect.
