I called Kelsey.
When I demanded to know why she had destroyed the garden, she said, “We needed fresh flowers. It was my wedding.”
I reminded her that she had promised not to touch them.
She laughed.
“They’re flowers, Nadia. They grow back. You own the place, so clean it yourself.”
Then she hung up.
# **PART 2**
Normally, Zac would have tried to keep everyone calm. This time, he stared at the destroyed garden and asked, “What do you need?”
“Grandma’s garden map.”
He retrieved a long cardboard tube from the study.
Inside was Grandma’s hand-drawn layout of the entire garden. Each flower bed had a number. Beside every number, she had recorded the plant, the date, and the memory associated with it.
Peonies — my first summer.
Lavender — the year she recovered.
Daisies — my first recital.
Roses — her anniversary.
Zac and I spent the afternoon matching the damaged beds against her map. By the time we finished, we had identified exactly 286 destroyed or uprooted plants.
That number gave me an idea.
Using Grandma’s old seed box, I assembled 286 numbered packets containing seeds, bulbs, cuttings, or replacement roots for everything Kelsey had destroyed.
At the bottom, I included 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 showed up wearing brand-new gardening gloves.
“This is humiliating,” she said.
I handed her packet number one.
“Lavender.”
She asked where it belonged.
I pointed toward Grandma’s map.
By lunchtime, Kelsey had mud covering her shoes.
“How many did I plant?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?”
“Only 278 left.”
The next Saturday, she came back wearing old jeans.
That was the first indication that something had changed.
