My first thought was, You are your family, can’t you do what you want?

But then I decided to hold my tongue. Who was I to say that if I was faced with a decision, knowing my parents would want me to do something a certain way, that I wouldn’t do it their way? In fact, I probably would. Look at how committed I was to my tooth-brushing routine.

“So when my first child was a girl—Agatha—I was a little sad, but then I thought . . . what matters isn’t the name, is it? It’s a person’s substance.”

“So Agatha’s the one who’s going to be in charge someday?” I asked.

I had assumed from the flow of the conversation that Laura was comfortable with the direction it had taken. But now she clammed up.

“I—I had hoped,” she said, her tone cooling. “But . . . I don’t know. It’s not worth discussing.”

Mortified, I doubled my focus on our work. I picked up an earwig (a gross little bug with pincers coming out of its face) and tossed it into the water. Then I made a critical mistake—I looked into the bucket.

The earwig struggled in the soapy water, its tiny body flailing as it disappeared out of sight. Laura had told me that the soap killed them quickly . . . but this didn’t look quick.

Nausea rocked my body like a shock wave.

“Margot?” Laura asked.

I scooted frantically away from the bucket, away from the dozens of innocent beings I’d heartlessly sent to dark, watery deaths. Somehow I’d failed to make the connection earlier, but now all I could think of was my whole family dying the same way.

“Margot,” Laura said, a little worried. “You’re flushed.”

I couldn’t answer. If I opened my mouth, I would throw up all over the pumpkins. Instead, I got to my feet and backed even farther away.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Is it too hot for you, or—”

She glanced in the bucket and the realization dawned on her.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, dear.”

I heard movement behind me, and then I heard her walking away, and the splash of water as she dumped the bucket somewhere. Then she came back and stood behind me. I didn’t move. I was a statue made of shattered glass.

“Margot,” she said. “I’m here.”

I didn’t answer. I was afraid to move for fear I’d fall apart. I didn’t want to cry. Not here, in the daylight, in the bright, exposed space of the garden.