Shrubs still bordered the house in beds that my mother carved out. They were salt-tolerant ones, like blue juniper, dark green holly, and silver thorn, and aside from the occasional large-scale replacement, when she stood over the Hartleys telling them exactly what to put where, the shrub beds were all hers. She also planted daisies, black-eyed Susans, and varieties of lilies and irises that could live near the sea.

Early mornings, late afternoons, mid-days when Dad was home and we were in each other’s hair, she escaped to the potting shed. It was her refuge. In the years since we left, especially since she died, I’ve often pictured her here.

I remember her humming as she unpotted new accent plants and repotted old ones. I remember how she would smile as she watched the sky lighten the windows in the greenhouse nook, and how she would gather us all in the backyard to oooh and ahhh over the fruits of her labor. I remember the pride Dad took in the landscaping when we had friends, colleagues, even clients here for cookouts.

Actually, no. I don’t. Remember, that is. These are wish-it-were memories, meaning, likely not true. My mother couldn’t hold a tune, she had us digging and lifting more than ooohing and ahhhing, and as for Dad showing pride? I do not recall that.

Yet here he is now, striding over the grass to the potting shed. It is small, little more than eight by ten feet, its wood frame a sea-worn gray and roughened by age, its windows streaked with sand. The greenhouse nook is a wall of glass that curves into the roof facing south for the most sun. The other walls have normal windows, albeit small ones to allow for storage inside. Even then, Dad complained that all the glass made the shed more vulnerable in high winds, but other than one hurricane when several broke, Mom’s guardian angel kept them safe.

This was her happy place. No wish-it-were memory this one. She may not have smiled at the sun or sung to her plants, but the potting shed was her domain. Dad did not step foot in it.

He doesn’t now, simply opens the full Dutch door, which moves with surprising ease given the neglect of the rest, and, holding himself straight, looks inside. What little I can see past him doesn’t appear to have been touched in years. But there is nothing warped about that door.

He’s been here before, I realize and feel a pang of sentiment. Missing my mother? I picture him standing here talking with her, asking about the iris she just planted or the loam she uses to bolster the soil. But of course, he didn’t do either.

Annoyed by that, I ask, “Why have you told me this, Dad?”

He shoots me a startled look. “What?”

“About your mind. You could have told Anne. Why me?”