“Morning, June,” my father said gently. “No need to be sorry.”
Brent stared at my father.
“You know her?”
“Every Saturday for a year and a half,” Dad said. “June likes the yellow squash. And the little red potatoes. Not the big ones. Says the little ones taste like the ones her mother grew.”
June let out a sound. Half sob, half laugh.
Brent looked from my father to his mother and back.
“I called the county,” he said. His voice was hollow. “I called the county on this. I told them it was an eyesore. I told them to make you tear it out.”
“I know,” Dad said.
“You knew? You knew she came here?”
“No,” Dad said. “I didn’t know she was your mother. I knew she was June. I knew she was a widow who lived in the apartments by the Dollar General and liked yellow squash. That’s all. People don’t have to tell me who they are to get a bag of beans.” He set his bucket down in the gravel. “But I knew you’d see it. If you just watched long enough. I figured if you saw who was eating out of this garden, you might feel different about looking at it.”
