Edward was still gone, and no amount of soup, gardening, or carefully sorted clothing could alter that. But Barbara began planting his tomatoes again, sharing the extras with neighbors and telling stories about his obsessive opinions on watering and fertilizer. Maya’s Thursday visits continued, our Saturday meals became routine, and the woman we once knew only by her perfect lawn gradually became someone whose kitchen we entered without formality. Looking back, I am still embarrassed that my curiosity led me to open that first bag, because grief deserves privacy. Yet Barbara once told me she was glad something finally made us cross the street, because she would never have knocked on our door herself. The last time I carried soup over, there were no black bags waiting by the curb. Barbara opened the door, stepped aside, and said she had just started the tomatoes, and by then that ordinary invitation felt like the clearest sign that her life had begun making room for something besides loss.