My neighbor picked every last piece of fruit from my garden.
But instead of marching over to her house and starting another argument, I decided on a different kind of response.
One that would make sure she understood exactly what she had done.
My husband, Daniel, had passed away only twelve days before our apples were ready for harvest.
Those trees had been his pride for years.
He pruned every branch himself.
Checked the fruit almost every morning.
And patiently taught our son, Ben, how to tell when an apple was truly ready to be picked.
Once, not long before Daniel died, he rested a hand on Ben’s shoulder and said,
“These trees will keep taking care of you, even when I’m not here.”
I immediately told him not to talk like that.
I had no idea how soon those words would matter.
The day we returned home from Daniel’s funeral, I was carrying our sleeping three-year-old daughter in my arms.
Ben walked beside me, clutching his father’s old cap against his chest.
We had barely reached the house when I heard a sharp cracking sound from the backyard.
