The boss gave away jars of pickles his mother had made, and the whole office laughed.

Later that afternoon, the break room was filled with unopened jars—abandoned and unwanted.

They looked… forgotten.

The cleaning staff didn’t even know how to deal with so many.

Something about it bothered me.

It reminded me of my grandmother, who used to make pickled vegetables every winter back in Oaxaca. Every visit, she would send me home with a jar.