“That the war Renn and I were fighting? We won. We are still a family. We laugh. We go places. We have vacations, and holidays, and dinners. We tell inside jokes. All we needed was for you to come back to us. And now that you have, everything will be okay.”

For the first time in a long time, I believe in something good.

I believe in my family.

Wearing Dad’s slippers, I clean up the broken china on the patio. I sweep the floor while he waters the flower beds. Every now and then, I look up to look at him. He is doing an awful job, drenching each bell pepper. I have no idea how he’s kept the garden alive for so long.

I feel lighter after my conversation with him. But also tired from the long day and the flight. I don’t know what I’m going to feel like tomorrow, but I know today is bearable, and that is a good start. The world did not end when I left Massachusetts. Dad and Renn did not change the locks and tell me to go away. And even though I am still guilt ridden about what I did to Joe—how I left things—I know he probably doesn’t want to hear from me.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask after a few minutes of watching Dad refilling the funnel for the fifteenth time. There is zero chance this is how he is sustaining this beautiful garden. There is also no way in hell he can handle the kind of water bill that comes with watering his plants this way.

Dad drops the empty funnel at his feet, moving a hand over his hair. He laughs. “I’m busted, aren’t I?”

“I thought it was weird that the garden survived without Mom.” I shrug. “Who’s taking care of the garden, then? Lawrence?”

Lawrence had been our gardener since I was three. He and Mom used to spend a lot of time together, planting and trimming and laughing.

Dad shakes his head. “No. He had to retire three years ago. He had a knee surgery, and then his daughter needed him to watch the grandchildren while she was at work . . . it got too much for him.”

Dad makes his way up the three stairs to the patio. I lean the broomstick against the wall, dusting my hands off. “Don’t tell me Renn is keeping this garden alive?”

“Renn?” He lets out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “I wouldn’t put him in charge of dishwashing duties.”

“Did you get a new gardener?” I frown, confused.

He shakes his head. “It felt wrong to let a stranger touch all the things Barbie had created.”

“So who’s in charge of it now?”