the children inside and somehow making it through our first evening in a house without him.
Then I heard a branch snap.
I stopped.
Another rustling sound came from behind the fruit trees.
“Mom?” Ben whispered.
I handed him the keys.
“Stay here.”
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I walked toward the garden.
Monica was halfway over our fence.
Her blouse had caught on a nail, and two enormous bags sat on our side of the property, filled with Daniel’s apples and pears.
For several seconds, we just stared at each other.
“What are you doing?” I finally demanded.
Monica pulled her blouse loose and climbed down.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. I’m taking them to sell. I need the money.”
I looked at the bags.
“You could have asked me.”
She folded her arms.
“And would you have said yes?”
“No. My children eat that fruit. Their father grew it.”
Monica rolled her
