Chapter 11: The Garden

The raised beds went in in June. Justin built them from reclaimed timber he'd sourced from two separate demolition sites, which was the kind of specific care that Mara noticed because she spent her professional life thinking about how materials held memory and meaning. The timber was old. The beds would be new. The garden would be the point where both became something else. She worked in the garden on the days she could. Some days she could not. The fatigue came in patterns she was learning to read, and she'd made an agreement with herself to be honest about the patterns rather than fighting them into things that cost more than they were worth. She rested when she needed to rest. She worked when she could work. The garden absorbed both without judgment. Justin had noticed the pattern without her explaining it, which she had expected — he was observant in the specific way of someone who worked with his hands and paid attention to what things required. 'Take today,' he said one morning, finding her trying to push past what was clearly a bad day. 'The tomatoes need—' 'I'll do the tomatoes,' he said. 'Sit with the tea and tell me where you want them.' She sat with the tea. She told him where she wanted them. He put them in exactly right. This was the thing about Justin that she had not let herself think about in the early months of the renovation: that he understood the language of what things needed and responded to it without requiring explanation. He had understood the house that way — seeing its original intention and restoring it rather than replacing it. He understood her the same way. She watched him work in the garden and thought about ten years and the things she'd been afraid of and the things she'd been right about and the things she'd been wrong about. She had been wrong about some important things.