Dean planted an apple tree in our backyard in 2013, just months before he passed away. It was something we did together, and before he went inside, he told me, “Give it time. It’ll surprise you.”
For two years, the tree gave nothing. No fruit, no sign it would ever grow into what we imagined. Still, I couldn’t remove it—it felt like losing him all over again.
In the third spring, everything changed. The tree bloomed, and by the end of the season, it produced twelve apples. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything.
As the years passed, the tree grew stronger. Soon it produced more apples than I could use, so I began sharing them with neighbors and children nearby. It became something quietly meaningful.
