We had taken Margaret’s fertilizer and turned it into an entire forest of safety.
Later that evening, Emma and I returned to our cottage. The greenhouse was fully illuminated, glowing like a beacon in the twilight. It was filled with hundreds of vibrant, blooming orchids—the descendants of the very first seeds Margaret had given us.
I poured a cup of tea and sat on the porch swing, watching Emma water the plants inside the glass walls.
I thought about Richard occasionally. He was currently serving a ten-year sentence in a federal penitentiary. He had tried to write me a letter once from prison, begging for forgiveness, trying to manipulate me one last time.
I had returned it to sender, unopened. He was a weed I had successfully pulled from my garden, and I refused to give him another drop of water.
The night air was cool and peaceful. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the crickets, the rustle of the leaves, and the gentle hum of the greenhouse fans.
I remembered the frightened, hollow woman I used to be. I remembered how impossible the future had seemed.
But Margaret had been right.
They can try to bury you in the dark. They can throw dirt over your head and tell you that you will never see the sun again.
But they don’t realize that for a seed, the dirt isn’t a grave.
It is the starting line.
