“That’s what happens with old houses. Something is always breaking.”

The young man noticed us and waved.

Daniel waved back.

But then he stared at the man for another moment.

“What?” I asked.

Daniel rubbed his jaw.

“He reminds me of somebody.”

“Who?”

He looked again, but the man had already disappeared inside Monica’s house.

“I don’t know. I can’t place it.”

Ben called for his father, and Daniel turned back toward the trees.

He placed a hand on our son’s shoulder and looked up through the branches.

“These trees will keep feeding you even after I’m gone.”

My stomach tightened.

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

He gave me his familiar smile.

“I only meant trees live a long time.”

“Then talk about the trees living a long time. Don’t talk about yourself disappearing.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it.

Twelve days later, Daniel died.

The afternoon we returned from his funeral, I carried our sleeping daughter Lily from the car while Ben walked beside me holding Daniel’s old cap tightly against his chest.

I barely looked toward the backyard.

All I could think about was getting the children inside and somehow making it through our first evening in a house without him.

Then I heard a branch snap.

I stopped.

Another rustling sound came from behind the fruit trees.

“Mom?” Ben whispered.

I handed him the keys.

“Stay here.”

I walked toward the garden.

Monica was halfway over our fence.

Her blouse had caught on a nail, and two enormous bags sat on our side of the property, filled with Daniel’s apples and pears.

For several seconds, we just stared at each other.

“What are you doing?” I finally demanded.

Monica pulled her blouse loose and climbed down.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. I’m taking them to sell. I need the money.”

I looked at the bags.

“You could have asked me.”

She folded her arms.

“And would you have said yes?”

“No. My children eat that fruit. Their father grew it.”

Monica rolled her eyes.

“Well, Daniel isn’t here anymore, is he? Half of it will rot anyway.”

I couldn’t speak.

Ben was standing a short distance behind me, still holding his father’s cap.

His fingers tightened around it.

I stepped between him and Monica.

“These trees are not yours. This property is not yours. Don’t come into my yard again.”

“Oh, please. Grief has made you hysterical.”

“Leave the fruit and go.”

Monica stared at me before letting go of one of the bags.

“You’ve always been very protective once you decide something belongs to you.”

I frowned.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You meant something.”

She climbed back over the fence.

Before walking away, she turned and looked at me.

“Funny how your entire life depended on one red light twenty-seven years ago.”

Everything inside me went cold.

“What did you say?”

But Monica was already heading toward her house.

Ben tugged on my sleeve.

“Mom, what did she mean?”

“I don’t know.”

That was a lie.

I knew exactly which red light she meant.

What I couldn’t understand was how Monica knew.

Daniel and I met twenty-seven years earlier because he ran a red light while turning and clipped me while I was crossing the street.

I wasn’t seriously injured.

Daniel had been horrified.

He insisted on driving me to the hospital himself, stayed until the doctors released me, drove me home, and returned the next morning carrying coffee and another apology.

Over the years, it became our private joke.

One terrible red light had somehow given us twenty-seven years together.

We told people the general story of how we’d met.

But Daniel had always hated admitting that he had actually run the light.

That detail stayed between us.

At least, I thought it had.

Yet Monica knew.