He was quiet for a moment.
“So I didn’t,” he said.
I was crying on the porch.
I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known any of it. I knew my mother grew a garden. I knew people came by sometimes on Saturdays. I’d thought they were friends from church. I’d thought it was a hobby. I’d moved away to college at eighteen and never really come back except for holidays, and I’d never asked. Not once.
Forty years. And I’d never asked who the beans were for.
Tyler was standing beside me. He’d put his clipboard down on the porch railing. He hadn’t touched it in a long time.
“How many people?” he asked my father. His voice was rough. “How many people does this feed?”
Dad thought about it.
“Saturdays, about forty families. Sometimes more. Depends on the week.” He shrugged. “Fridays, I do eleven houses. And I drop off whatever’s left at the food pantry at St. Luke’s. Sister Rosemary says it’s the only fresh vegetables they get all summer.”
