“I planted flowers because I liked flowers.”
“My mother planted flowers because she liked flowers.”
“I did not ask company to lose money forever so dead women can feel respected.”
Maya started laughing.
Sophie continued.
“Keep garden.”
“Sell flowers seasonally.”
“Stop pretending sentiment is business model.”
The commercial flower division closed.
Garden stayed.
Rachel Carter’s original dahlias still grew.
Smaller.
No payroll.
Better.
When Sophie died at ninety-three, her obituary said she co-founded Cedar Creek floral operations.
Maya knew Sophie would roll eyes.
Families turn everybody into founders eventually.
At the funeral, Ben—now an architect with two children—asked Maya:
“Do you ever think farm should have just stayed farm?”
“What does that mean?”
“No compost company.”
“No Harbor.”
“No famous story.”
“Just vegetables.”
Maya looked toward Cedar Creek hills.
“Maybe.”
“Would life be easier?”
“For whom?”
He shrugged.
“Everybody.”
Maya smiled.
“Life does not offer alternate timelines with audited financials.”
Ben laughed.
She continued.
“The compost saved land.”
“It also created risk.”
“Jobs.”
“Stress.”
“Community.”
“Truck traffic.”
“Money.”
“Arguments.”
“Nothing only gives.”
Ben nodded.
That answer stayed.
At seventy-two, Maya discovered lung cancer.
She had never smoked.
Unfairness remains uninterested in biography.
Treatment.
Surgery.
Remission.
Then recurrence.
She continued board work longer than doctors recommended.
Her children became annoyed.
“Grandpa Noah worked until eighty.”
Ben said.
“That is not an argument for you.”
Maya smiled.
“Correct.”
She resigned fully.
Her final board meeting lasted forty minutes.
No grand speech.
She handed Elena a folder.
“What?”
“Things I think you’re doing wrong.”
Elena laughed.
“Of course.”
“Read after I leave.”
“Anything nice?”
“One page.”
Maya stood.
Employees had gathered outside.
She hated that.
Someone applauded.
Then more.
She cried.
Not elegantly.
At home, Maya opened an old wooden box Daniel had given her after Noah’s death.
Inside sat Noah’s tan cap.
Not the famous one.
Another.
Family had lost track which hat was which.
That amused her.
She held it.
Her father Daniel, now ninety, sat nearby.
Still alive.
Still taller in his mind.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Maya looked.