Ben helped me plant them.
He wore Daniel’s old cap.
My daughter sat nearby playing with a wooden watering can.
As we pressed soil around the first sapling, Ben looked at me.
“Will these make apples?”
“Eventually.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
He frowned.
“That’s a long time.”
“Yes.”
He thought about it.
Then smiled.
“Dad would’ve liked that.”
I smiled.
“He would’ve.”
Ben pressed his hands into the soil.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can we make a sign?”
“What kind?”
He thought for a moment.
Then said:
“Daniel’s Garden.”
I looked at him.
My eyes filled with tears.
“That sounds perfect.”
We built the sign together.
It was simple.
A wooden board.
Hand-painted letters.
DANIEL’S GARDEN
Underneath, Ben added:
PLANTED WITH LOVE.
My daughter put a crooked yellow flower in the corner.
We kept it.
Even though the paint ran.
Even though the letters weren’t straight.
Because it was ours.
The following autumn, one of the new trees produced its first three apples.
Only three.
Ben stared at them like they were diamonds.
“Mom!”
I came running.
“What?”
“Look!”
I knelt beside him.
Three tiny red apples hung from the branch.
My daughter clapped.
“Apples!”
Ben smiled.
“Dad was right.”
I touched one carefully.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me.
“The trees kept taking care of us.”
My heart nearly broke.
I pulled him into my arms.
“Yes.”
I kissed the top of his head.
“They did.”
Monica never stole from us again.
In fact, something unexpected happened.
A few months later, she started helping at the community garden.
She didn’t ask me to forgive her.
She didn’t try to become my friend.
