He nodded toward the bean rows. Toward Brent, on his knees in the dirt.
“Only way to fix a thing like that,” he said, “is to let him see it. All of it. Who eats out of this garden. Why it’s here. Then he gets to decide for himself who he wants to be.”
“What if he’d seen it and still wanted it torn out?”
Dad shrugged.
“Then I’d have called your lawyer,” he said. “But I figured it was worth a try first. Your mother always said most people aren’t mean. Most people are just scared of something they haven’t looked at yet.”
That Friday, I rode along.
I set my alarm for three-forty-five. When I came downstairs, Dad was already in the kitchen packing banana boxes. Eleven of them.
“You coming?” he asked. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like I’d been coming every Friday for forty years.
