This morning I stood barefoot in my garden, fingers in the soil. The dew was cold against my arches. I liked it. Reminded me I’m still alive, still here, still watching.

The vial of tea—what I saved of it—sat on my kitchen counter, sealed tight in a jelly jar. I’d cleaned and labeled it like I do all my preserves: “April 12 — Suspicious.” Just that. Laura would know what to do next.

Out there in the early fog, I let myself remember. After James passed, Evan disappeared like a stone tossed in a river. One minute, we were side by side at the graveside—his hand gripping my elbow tight enough to bruise—and the next, he was gone. No visits. Not even a phone call after my hip surgery. Laura drove me both ways. Bless her.

I tried not to take it personal. You know how men get, I told myself. Grief makes them quiet. Angry. But years went by and the silence never changed—until last week, when he called out of the blue.

“Just wanted to check in on you, Ma,” he said. “Thinking maybe I should come visit.”

I should have known then. Folks don’t change that sudden unless they want something. And Evan never wanted anything that didn’t benefit him.