I began crying.
Dad pretended not to notice.
And I loved him for that.
Our first stop was a small community kitchen.
A woman named Pastor Linda Reynolds met us near the back entrance.
She smiled when she saw Dad.
“There he is!”
Dad tipped his cap.
“Morning, Linda.”
Then she noticed me.
“You must be his daughter.”
I nodded.
She hugged me immediately.
“Your father is a blessing.”
I smiled awkwardly.
“So I keep hearing.”
She helped us unload the boxes.
Then invited us inside.
The kitchen was already busy.
Volunteers were chopping onions.
A large pot simmered on the stove.
Several tables were prepared for breakfast.
Linda showed me a whiteboard listing the number of meals served the previous week.
I stared at it.
Hundreds.
She looked toward Dad.
“Your produce helps us make those meals better.”
He shrugged.
“Things grow.”
Linda smiled.
“Not without someone planting them.”
Dad looked embarrassed.
Then returned to the truck.
Our second stop was a veterans’ community center.
The third was a row of modest apartments where several elderly residents lived.
At each stop, people greeted Dad by name.
They asked about his knee.
His truck.
His tomatoes.
His old dog, who had died years earlier.
Some offered him coffee.
Others handed him empty boxes from the previous week’s delivery.
One woman gave him a jar of homemade jam.
He tried refusing.
She insisted.
He accepted.
By seven-thirty, the truck was empty.
Dad looked satisfied.
I sat beside him as we drove home.
Then asked, “How much do you spend on all this?”
He glanced toward me.
“Not much.”
I laughed.
“Dad.”
He sighed.
“Seeds aren’t expensive.”
“Water?”
“Rain helps.”
“Gas?”
“Truck needs driving anyway.”
I shook my head.
“You’ve been doing this alone?”
He thought for a moment.
“Mostly.”
My chest tightened.
“Not anymore.”
He looked at me.
I smiled.
“I’m helping.”
He didn’t say anything for several seconds.
Then he reached over and patted my hand.
