The offer came in October. Fifty-three thousand, relocation, a title I'd been chasing for two years. I called the recruiter back and said no, and I couldn't fully explain why.
She was raking the side yard when I told her. She said, You sure? and I said yes because my chest said yes.
That first winter I cleared the rented garage so we'd have room for the car. The snow shovel had a cracked handle I wrapped in duct tape. She laughed and called it our inheritance.
She left in March. Packed her grandmother's quilt and the ceramic bowl she'd made me. Left the shovel, the duct tape already peeling.
By September the garden came in. Tomatoes, zucchini, more basil than one person should grow.
I stood in the rows with dirt under my nails, holding a tomato I'd planted for her, and realized the gut feeling was never about her.
It was about learning to stay somewhere long enough to lose something — and keep standing in the garden after.