Dad merely said, “Thank you for coming.”
Aaron looked around the garden.
“No. Thank you for asking.”
By eight, most of the vegetables had been loaded into cars.
People shook Dad’s hand.
Some hugged him.
The teenagers waved.
Sophie presented him with a crooked cucumber she had apparently decided was unsuitable for anyone else.
“For you.”
Dad accepted it solemnly.
“My favorite kind.”
“There are kinds?”
“This kind.”
She grinned.
Elena loaded the last basket into the minivan.
Before leaving, she approached me.
“He helped us when my husband got sick,” she said quietly.
I looked toward Dad.
“He never told me.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer. Daniel couldn’t work for almost a year. I had three children and eighteen dollars left after rent one week.”
She swallowed.
“Your father came to our apartment with groceries.”
“That sounds like him.”
“No,” she said. “Not groceries from a store. Vegetables. Eggs. Bread. He had made soup.”
