I found it during a lunch break that stretched too long — a seed packet, past its plant-by date by three years, wedged between a crate of lemons and a tub of butter in the walk-in cooler of my stepdaughter's bistro.
I recognized my own handwriting on the label: "Sweet peas, for the trellis." I'd given it to her the summer after I married her father, when she was fifteen and barely spoke to me.
She came in while I was staring at it. "You kept this," I said. She shrugged, but she didn't look away.
I remember that summer. I planted sweet peas in her mother's old garden, hoping she'd see me tending something she loved. She never came outside.
"They're still good," she said finally, taking the packet from me. "Seeds don't know about dates. They just wait for the right soil."
I thought about all the years I'd been waiting too. All the meals I'd brought over, the flowers I'd left on her porch, the birthdays I'd shown up for even when she didn't answer the door.
She put the packet back in the cooler. "Come by Saturday. I'll show you where I'm going to plant them."
I walked out into the March sun, my hands still smelling of the walk-in's cold air and lemon rind. The lunch rush was over. I had nowhere else to be.
If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be this: seeds don't know about dates. They just wait. And so do we.