Part 1 — Daniel’s Garden
Twelve days after I buried my husband, I found our neighbor climbing over my fence with two bags stuffed with fruit from his garden.
At first, I thought it was simple theft.
Then she mentioned something that had happened twenty-seven years earlier—something I believed only Daniel and I knew.
That was when I realized she hadn’t come for the apples.
Not really.
My husband, Daniel, loved our fruit trees almost as much as he loved teasing me about how little patience I had for gardening.
Every September, he walked through the backyard with pruning shears sticking out of one pocket and an old cloth bag hanging from his shoulder. He inspected every branch, checked the color of the apples, and gently twisted the fruit to see whether it was ready.
Our eight-year-old son, Ben, followed him everywhere.
One warm afternoon, I watched from the patio as Ben reached eagerly toward a bright red apple.
“Not that one yet,” Daniel told him.
Ben looked offended.
“But it’s red.”
Daniel laughed. “Red doesn’t always mean ready.”
He guided Ben’s hand around the apple.
“Turn it gently. If it comes away easily, it’s ready. If you have to pull, leave it alone.”
Ben twisted.
Nothing happened.
Daniel smiled.
“See? Good things usually don’t need to be forced.”
I leaned against the patio door, pretending to enjoy the lesson.
In reality, I was watching Daniel.
He had been getting tired more easily.
He rested after climbing the ladder.
Sometimes he left half his dinner untouched.
And every so often, when he thought nobody was paying attention, he pressed a hand against his chest.
I noticed every single time.
That afternoon, he caught me staring.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Watching me like I’m about to fall apart.”
“I wasn’t.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve been married twenty-seven years. You still can’t lie convincingly.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked away.
Before either of us could say more, a voice came from beyond the fence.
“Looks like you’ll have plenty of fruit this year.”
Our neighbor, Monica, was standing in her yard.
She was fifty, always polished, even when she was supposedly working outside. Her clothes never seemed dirty enough for someone who claimed to enjoy gardening.
Monica had known Daniel long before I had.
Years earlier, they had moved in some of the same social circles and dated briefly when they were young. Daniel told me about it after Monica inherited her parents’ house and moved back next door nine years earlier.
I hadn’t cared.
Twenty-seven years of marriage made a few teenage dates seem meaningless.
“Enough for pies until Christmas,” Daniel called back.
Monica smiled, though something in her expression made me uncomfortable.
Then a white van pulled into her driveway.
A young man got out carrying a toolbox.
He had visited her house several times that summer.
I nodded toward him.
“Your repairman is back.”
Monica glanced over.
“This place is ancient. Something is always leaking or breaking.”
The young man looked toward our yard and gave a small wave.
Daniel waved back.
But then he stared.
Not rudely.
Just longer than usual.
“What?” I asked.
Daniel rubbed his jaw.
“That guy…”
“What about him?”
“He reminds me of somebody.”
“Who?”
Daniel looked again, but the young man had already disappeared into Monica’s house.
“I’m not sure.”
Ben called from beneath the apple tree.
“Dad!”
Daniel immediately turned back toward him.
A few minutes later, I heard him say something I wish I hadn’t.
“These trees will still be feeding you long after I’m gone.”
My stomach tightened.
“Daniel.”
He looked toward me innocently.
“What?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“I’m talking about trees.”
“Then talk about trees.”
He smiled, walked over, and squeezed my hand.
I wish I had held on longer.
Twelve days later, Daniel was dead.
