We had our daughter, Lena, four years after we married.
From the moment she was born, Nadia wanted to teach her how to grow things.
When Lena was three, they planted sunflowers in a pot.
When she was five, they grew cherry tomatoes.
And when she was six, Nadia started planning a proper backyard garden for the house we hoped to buy someday.
Then came the diagnosis.
Cancer.
The word entered our lives one afternoon and rearranged everything we thought we understood about the future.
At first, we believed treatment would work.
Nadia was young.
Strong.
Stubborn.
She loved teaching and refused to imagine leaving her students halfway through a school year.
But the disease didn't care about her plans.
There were hospital visits.
Treatments.
Complications.
And long nights when I sat beside her bed pretending to be less frightened than I was.
Lena was seven when Nadia died.
For months afterward, my daughter stopped drawing flowers.
She stopped asking to help in the garden.
And sometimes, when I walked past her bedroom, I'd hear her whispering to a photograph of her mother.
I wanted to protect her from the grief.
But I couldn't.
All I could do was stay.
Listen.
And keep the promise Nadia made me give her during one of our last conversations.
“Don't let our little girl grow up thinking happiness means you've forgotten me.”
I remember looking toward her.
My eyes were burning.
“Nadia—”
She squeezed my hand.
“Promise.”
I nodded.
“I promise.”
She smiled faintly.
“Then make that garden someday.”
That was why I bought the house in Mesa Verde Estates.
It wasn't the largest property in the neighborhood.
It wasn't the most expensive.
But it had a beautiful backyard bordered by a tall wooden fence, enough sunlight for flowers, and a small rectangle of grass where Lena could play.
The house stood near the end of a quiet street.
There were mature trees, desert landscaping, and a paved patio shaded by the second floor.