Still, when Maya asked whether her grandmother could teach her to plant tomatoes, I said yes, provided Maya wanted to do it.

Their first seedlings leaned badly toward the window.

It became a family joke that the plants had inherited our talent for surviving complicated beginnings.

Isabelle’s letter remained unopened.

Maya knew it was there, and she knew she could choose what to do with it when she was ready.

We did not force a reconciliation to make the ending prettier.

Some stories require time beyond their final page.

There were no velvet ropes.