My late husband, Daniel, treated our apple trees like treasured family members. Every September, he would wander through the garden with pruning shears tucked into his back pocket, inspecting every bough and rolling fruit in his calloused palm as if testing for a pulse. That afternoon, our eight-year-old boy, Ben, trotted beside him carrying an empty basket.Try Marriage Counseling
“Leave that one,” Daniel murmured when Ben reached for a brilliant crimson apple.
