He turned toward the greenhouse.
Its glass roof reflected the moonlight.
For thirty-two years, Michael had repaired those windows himself.
After his death, I had learned how to replace broken panes, prune climbing roses, and keep the irrigation system working.
I hadn’t done everything perfectly.
Some years, grief had made ordinary chores feel impossible.
But the garden was still alive.
Caleb approached me.
“I almost helped them,” he said.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He swallowed.
“Sabrina asked me for copies of the old property records. She said her father could recommend contractors if you wanted to renovate.”
My knees weakened.
“I sent her everything I had.”
I put one hand against the gatepost.
He continued in a broken voice.
“I gave her your birthday, your full legal name, copies of Dad’s old estate papers. I thought I was helping you.”
I closed my eyes.
Caleb stepped back.
“Mom, I’m so sorry.”
I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter.
But it did.
It mattered terribly.
So I said something I had never said to him before.
“I love you, Caleb. But you have to stop confusing love with believing whatever someone tells you.”
He looked at me.
“You stopped asking me what I wanted because Sabrina told you she knew. And I stopped trying to explain because you made me feel like my choices were an inconvenience.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
