could have.”
He sat beside me.
“But then you wouldn’t be here.”
That sentence landed quietly.
A year earlier, I might have made a joke.
Instead, I nodded.
“I’m here.”
Through the kitchen window, I could see the old garden stone where Dad once hid the rusty key.
Nothing was buried beneath it anymore.
No secrets.
No documents.
No key.
Just soil, rosemary, and the tomatoes Mom insisted tasted better than anything sold in stores.
Dad caught me looking.
“You know,” he said, “your grandfather was wrong about one thing.”
“
