I nodded.
“That’s honest.”
“She asked if you were going to call the police.”
“I already did.”
Her face tightened.
“I know.”
There was a long silence.
Then she said:
“I brought something.”
She handed me an envelope.
Inside was money.
I stared at it.
“What is this?”
“For the fruit.”
I shook my head.
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
She took a breath.
“So I called the local nursery.”
I looked at her.
“They said they can replace some of the damaged trees.”
I was silent.
“I’ve already paid for the replacement saplings.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She continued.
“I can’t replace what your husband grew.”
“No.”
“But maybe I can stop making it worse.”
I looked at the envelope.
Then at her.
“Why are you doing this?”
She answered honestly.
“Because I finally understood that I wasn’t stealing apples.”
She looked toward the garden.
“I was stealing something from your children.”
That was the first time I saw genuine shame on her face.
Not fear.
Not embarrassment.
Shame.
I didn’t invite her inside.
I didn’t hug her.
I didn’t tell her everything was forgiven.
I simply said:
“Thank you.”
She nodded.
Then walked away.
Spring came slowly.
The replacement trees arrived in March.
