He’d barely hugged me when he walked in this morning. Just brushed the screen door aside like it was his house. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said, glancing around my tidy porch with all its potted ferns. Like he was scouting the place. Like he wasn’t born in it.

So now here he was with herbal tea and soft concern, calling me “Ma” more times than I’d heard since Clinton was president. And I, fool that I’ve been, nodded and said, “Thank you.”

But I didn’t drink. I reached for it with my left hand—arthritis twisting my knuckles like stubborn roots—while my right hand slipped beneath the table, opening the old velvet pouch I used for heirloom seeds. I tilted the cup just enough to pour some inside. The pouch was lined. Laura gave it to me for collecting precious things. She’ll get a kick out of this one.

“You look good, Ma,” Evan said. “For seventy‑eight, I mean.”