Patricia had spoken harshly to me at the front door twice while Lena was home. My daughter had heard enough of those conversations to understand that the woman disliked our garden.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Lena looked toward the flowers.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Does she hate Mommy?”
My chest tightened.
I crouched beside her.
“No, sweetheart.”
Lena looked up.
“She keeps trying to make us change everything Mommy wanted.”
I swallowed.
She wasn't wrong.
For months, Patricia had complained about the flowers, the irrigation equipment, and the small wooden sign bearing Nadia's name.
I took a breath.
“Sometimes people become so focused on controlling things that they stop thinking about how their actions affect others.”
Lena frowned.
“That's mean.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the broken patch of lawn.
“Can we fix it?”
I smiled gently.
“Of course.”
She considered that.
Then asked, “Can we make it even prettier?”
For the first time that afternoon, I laughed.
“Yes.”
She nodded firmly.
“Good.”
Then she pointed toward the salvia.
“Mommy liked purple.”
“I know.”
“We should plant more.”
I smiled.
“Then we will.”
Lena reached for my hand.
We stood beside the garden for several minutes, watching the late-afternoon sunlight move across the patio.
Then she looked toward the wooden sign.
NADIA'S GARDEN.
Her expression softened.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can people hurt a memory?”
The question caught me off guard.
I looked toward my daughter.
For several seconds, I didn't answer.
Then I said quietly, “They can damage things that remind us of somebody.”
Lena nodded.
“But they can't take away what we remember.”
She thought about that.
Then smiled faintly.
“So Mommy's garden is still Mommy's garden.”
I felt tears rise.
“Yes.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Then we're okay.”
I pulled her into a hug.
For a long moment, I held her against my chest.
I wished Nadia were there.
I wished she could see how brave our daughter was becoming, how she found hope in things I sometimes saw only as another problem to solve.