“I owe Nadia one too,” he said.
He admitted that for years he had asked me to be the reasonable one whenever Kelsey caused problems because he knew I was easier to reason with.
“That wasn’t keeping the peace,” he said. “It was making the kinder person carry the cost.”
Kelsey lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
The following spring, Grandma’s garden came alive again.
The garden had found its shape again.
One Saturday, I arrived and found Kelsey already kneeling beside the peonies, pulling weeds.
A little girl from a nearby cottage reached toward one of the flowers.
Kelsey gently stopped her.
“Careful.”
“Why?” the child asked.
Kelsey smiled.
“Because somebody loved that flower long before we did.”
I stood quietly on the porch.
For the first time since Grandma died, the yard no longer felt frozen in the past.
It felt alive.
Grandma always said flowers were better than photographs.
A photograph preserves a moment.
A garden proves someone cared enough to keep coming back.
And now Kelsey finally understood why.
