Normally, Zac would have tried to calm everyone down. This time, he looked at the ruined garden and asked, “What do you need?”
“Grandma’s garden map.”
He brought me a long cardboard tube from the study.
Inside was Grandma’s hand-drawn plan of the entire garden. Every flower bed had a number. Beside each number, she had written the plant, the date, and the memory connected to it.
Peonies — my first summer.
Lavender — the year she recovered.
Daisies — my first recital.
Roses — her anniversary.
Zac and I spent the afternoon comparing the ruined beds with her map. When we finished, we identified exactly 286 destroyed or uprooted plants.
That number gave me an idea.
Using Grandma’s old seed box, I prepared 286 numbered packets containing seeds, bulbs, cuttings, or replacement roots for everything Kelsey had ruined.
At the bottom, I placed a laminated copy of Grandma’s map. On top, I attached a plaque:
**RESTORATION KIT.**
A courier delivered it to Kelsey the next afternoon.
Less than an hour later, she called.
“What did you send me?”
“My wedding gift.”
“You sent me dirt!”
“I sent you everything you said would grow back.”
She noticed the numbers.
“You expect me to plant 286 flowers?”
“No. I expect you to restore 286 memories.”
She offered to hire a landscaper and pay double. I refused.
Finally, she demanded to know what I wanted.
“Come here every Saturday until the garden is restored.”
She said she would never spend her weekends gardening.
I told her she could refuse, but then I would tell the family that the flowers she claimed would “grow back” apparently needed someone to do the work.
The following Saturday, Kelsey arrived in brand-new gardening gloves.
“This is humiliating,” she said.
I handed her packet number one.
“Lavender.”
She asked where it went.
I pointed to Grandma’s map.
By lunchtime, Kelsey had mud on her shoes.
“How many did I plant?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?”
“Only 278 left.”
The next Saturday, she returned wearing old jeans.
That was the first sign something had changed.
PART 3
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