“Well,” I said, folding my napkin and dabbing the corner of my lips like a good Southern lady. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? I’ve got some beans on the stove and cornbread in the oven.”

His eyes lit up like I’d handed him the deed. “Sure, Ma. That sounds real nice.”

I got up slowly, knees creaking louder than the floorboards, and made my way to the kitchen. As I stirred the pot, I looked out the window toward the shed. James built that thing with his bare hands. The walls still hold his smell—cedar and pipe tobacco.

If Evan thinks I’m soft just because I knit and talk to my plants, he’s forgotten who raised him.

The tea sat untouched on the table behind me, cooling next to a vase of fresh‑cut roses—the same ones I used to prune while Evan played in the yard back before he got too busy to come home. In my apron pocket, the little seed pouch was safe. I’d take it to Laura first thing in the morning. But tonight, I’d let him think he’d won.

And sweetheart, he really shouldn’t have called me obsolete. Not in this house. Not in my garden. Because this old woman’s roots run deep.

I locked the vault behind him—of trust, not steel.