When we finally returned home, the first thing I did was rush to check on my plants. Some leaves had yellowed, others drooped sadly, but they were all still alive. Nothing was beyond saving.
As I touched each plant, gently trimming away what had withered, I thought about how much energy I had spent trying to keep things perfect — and how easily life had reminded me that perfection is never the goal. Growth is.
“Of course,” I said, handing her a small watering can.
We spent the morning side by side, laughing as we worked. I showed her how to loosen the soil and test for moisture. She told me about a cactus she’d tried to grow in her room — one that didn’t make it, but that she’d loved anyway.
Somewhere between the laughter and the quiet focus, something beautiful happened. The unease that had lived between us — the subtle distance that often shadows blended families — began to fade.
The Lesson Hidden in the Soil
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