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Mom’s had the garden since I was a little girl. She started it after reading an article about how delicious homegrown tomatoes and bell peppers were and how growing them yourself would make it fun for your kids to eat their vegetables. I don’t know if it increased my vegetable consumption, but Mom found a passion with gardening and never stopped.
I pull up outside the house, looking at it like I always do. It’s simply home to me, almost frozen in time like a fading picture in a photo album. But this time, I see more.
I see the symbol of my parents’ years of hard work. I see the easy childhood I had, never worrying about where my next meal would come from. I see my mom and dad as a team, even when Dad was traveling for work. I see the gift my upbringing was, and I feel for Noah. Not pity—he doesn’t want or need that. But my heart simply beats a little faster for the boy who took on so much responsibility and grew into a man who still needs to be in control to feel safe.
I get out, stretching as I soak in the warm spring sun. I walk through the open garage door and into the shade and grin at the sight of mine and River’s old childhood junk packed in boxes along one wall. Mom swears that someday it’ll all be at our houses, but I don’t believe her. She doesn’t keep it for us. She holds onto it all because they’re her favorite mementos of our childhood.
“Mom?” I call out. “You here?”
“In the back, honey!” Mom calls. “Grab the bag of seeds, will you? They’re on the washer!”
I look, surprised when I see the small bag in question. “Corn?” I ask the empty garage as I pick up the bag and walk through into the backyard.
Things look exactly the same back here, right down to the rope swing hanging from the old pine tree in the corner. I haven’t swung in ages, but Mom hasn’t taken it down either. Another memento of a good childhood.
Mom’s over on the left side of the yard in her garden, and I have to pause at the rush of warm fuzzies and happy memories that wash through me. Mom looks amazing, easily mistaken for a woman twenty years younger than she is, and in this moment, I see her the way she was long ago.
“Hey, honey!” Mom says, dropping her gardening trowel and coming over for a hug. I set the bag down and give Mom a hug. She likes physical affection, even as far back as when I was little and we’d snuggle our way through TV shows.
“Hi, Mom!” I tell her warmly, holding her extra-long. “Have I told you how much I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me recently?”
“Aww, honey. That’s so sweet,” she says, but then she gets to the point. “What do you want?”
I laugh, letting her go because she’s broken the moment. “Nothing. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately and realizing that you’ve done so much for River and me. I always knew you had my back, never doubted that for a second, but maybe I didn’t appreciate how rare that was. So just . . . thank you.”
“Riley, honey,” Mom says, tears shining in her eyes. “That’s so . . .” Instead of continuing, she just hugs me again, a little tighter this time.
“Oh, I got dirt on you.” Mom tries to brush off my shoulder with the back of her hand, but she only succeeds in getting another smudge on my T-shirt.
“It’s fine, Mom,” I tell her, laughing. “I wore work clothes because I knew we’d be getting dirty in the garden.”
She freezes suddenly, looking me up and down. We’re dressed similarly, in denim shorts and T-shirts, though her shirt has the sleeves cut off. And Mom’s not wearing boots like I am, but rather her gardening Crocs that are easy to hose off at the end of the day.
“Hmm, I didn’t think of that,” she mutters, wiping at her forehead.
My brow furrows. “Think of what?”
“What? Oh, nothing. You want a glass of tea?” she asks suddenly, turning away from me and walking over to the patio table. She has a pitcher of iced tea sitting on a tray and is pouring one for me before I can even catch up with her.
Her frenetic energy worries me. “Mom? Everything okay?”
“Of course, of course.” She hands me the tea, and I take a slow sip, my eyes never leaving her because she’s scanning me from head to toe. She reaches out, messing with my hair . . . or fixing it?
I wave her off. “What are you doing?” I mean for it to sound sharp and no-nonsense, but I choke on the overly sweet tea and lose any and all cred. “And who made this? It’s basically diabetes in a glass!” I sputter around a cough as I thump my chest.
