Bundles of wild greens, still slightly damp, bits of dirt clinging to the roots. Eggs wrapped carefully in old newspaper, arranged so none would break. A jar of homemade salsa—ground by hand, just like my mom used to make it. And in a separate bag, dried fish, sealed tight… though the scent always found a way through.
Simple things.
Ordinary to anyone else.
Everything to me.
“It’s from the farm,” I said quietly. “She always sends—”
“But why?” Emily cut in, looking straight at me now. “We have grocery stores here. We don’t need this.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Not because I couldn’t.
But because I knew whatever I said wouldn’t matter.
She picked up one of the bags, holding it between her fingers like it bothered her.
“Look at this,” she said. “There’s still dirt on it. You think this is clean?”
“You wash it,” I replied softly.
“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “The point is—we don’t live like this anymore.”
Her voice wasn’t loud.
It was certain.
And that made it harder.
I looked back at the box.
I imagined my mom waking up early, picking each thing by hand, cleaning it as best she could, packing it carefully. Thinking about us… about her grandson… hoping we’d like it.