And I didn’t discover it until I unknowingly sold them the tree they planted in my memory.
It started when I was eighteen.
My brother Mitch had recently begun dating Avery Lockheart, whose wealthy family lived in Mountain Brook, Alabama.
Two days before her first Easter visit, I noticed several family photographs missing from our hallway.
My mother said she was updating the frames.
Then she quietly moved my medication out of sight.
“Avery comes from a good family,” she explained. “They’ve already been through a terrible loss. We don’t need to burden them with your situation.”
I’d recently been hospitalized and was still receiving treatment.
I knew my mother was uncomfortable discussing it. But I never imagined she’d go this far.
That Saturday, Dad placed my car keys beside the sink.
“Be gone before eleven.”
I packed a bag and drove to my friend Casey’s grandmother’s peach farm.
Her grandmother, Ruth, took one look at me and handed me a pair of gardening gloves.
“Hands first. Questions can wait.”
I spent the weekend helping her thin peach trees.
Before I left, she showed me a tree everyone thought had died during the winter.
She scratched a small section of bark with her thumbnail.
Underneath was bright green.
“See that? Still alive. Just had a difficult winter.”
I remembered those words for years.
Unfortunately, I needed them.
What began as one Easter weekend became a routine.
Whenever Avery visited, I disappeared.
Sometimes for a day.
Sometimes for an entire weekend.
My mother removed my photographs and belongings from shared spaces. Eventually, she installed a lock on my bedroom door.
My car couldn’t remain in the driveway.
My mail had to be hidden.
When I asked why, Mom said Avery believed I lived and worked in Atlanta.
“Don’t make me a liar,” she warned.
I accepted that explanation because I couldn’t imagine the alternative.
By twenty, I was paying my parents $400 a month for a bedroom I regularly wasn’t allowed to use.
I started recording every forced departure in a yellow notebook.
Date.
Occasion.
Number.
Meanwhile, I worked at a garden center and spent most of my unwanted weekends helping Ruth.
She taught me grafting, pruning and orchard management.
Eventually, she introduced me to Ingred, an old friend who owned an orchard in Washington.
Ingred offered me seasonal work.
I wanted to accept.
