Twenty-seven years of resentment suddenly made sense.
But one question remained.
“The apples.”
Monica blinked.
“What about them?”
I glanced toward her open garage.
Every missing basket of fruit was there.
All of it.
“You never planned to sell them.”
The anger slowly disappeared from her face.
“When I inherited this house nine years ago, I told myself I would tell Daniel about Luke.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because then I saw him with Ben. I watched them in the garden year after year. Every year I waited, telling myself there would be a better time.”
“You should have told him.”
“I know.”
Her voice became quieter.
“When Luke came here, I thought we’d finally do it. Then Daniel died before Luke ever got to speak to him.”
She looked toward my house.
“I saw you come home from the funeral. I saw Ben holding Daniel’s cap.”
“Ben is his son.”
“So is Luke!”
Monica covered her mouth with one hand.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered, “I know none of this was your fault. Maybe I’ve always known that. But when I saw you bring Daniel’s children home, I became angry.”
She swallowed hard.
“You got twenty-seven years with him. Your children got a father. Luke got nothing.”
I looked toward the garage.
“So you took everything from the trees.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because for one moment, I wanted you to know what it felt like to lose something of Daniel’s too.”
What she’d done was cruel.
It was still wrong.
