“You Gave Me the Barren Plot. Nothing Grows Here,” Complained My Sister

When our mother passed away last spring, my sister Savannah and I were left to sort through her belongings and her few legacies. Among these was a small plot in the local community garden, a place where she had spent many of her retirement hours tending to tomatoes and tulips with equal zeal. The will was straightforward: the plot was to be shared equally between Savannah and me.

I remember the day we visited the garden for the first time after her passing. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and fresh earth—a stark contrast to the heavy sadness that lay between us. We were both drawn to the garden for solace, but also because it was one of the last tangible connections to our mother.

The community garden was divided into several plots, and ours was on the far end, bordered by a high fence and an overgrown hedge. It was clear from the outset that the plot had been neglected during our mother’s illness. The soil was dry and clumpy, weeds had taken over where vegetables and flowers once thrived.

Savannah, ever the more practical one, took one look at the plot and declared it a disaster. “You gave me the barren plot, Violet. Nothing grows here,” she said, her voice a mix of anger and disappointment. I was confused; the plot was meant to be shared, yet somehow, she had concluded I had tricked her into taking the worse half.

“I didn’t give you anything,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “It’s ours. Both of ours. We can work on it together, bring it back to life.”

But Savannah was adamant. She had seen another plot, just a few rows down, lush and vibrant, clearly tended by someone with a greener thumb than ours. “Let’s swap with Andrew. He doesn’t care much about gardening anyway, he might not even notice.”

I was taken aback by her suggestion. Andrew, a distant cousin who also had a plot in the garden, was known for his laid-back attitude, but swapping plots without a discussion seemed unethical, if not outright deceitful. “We can’t just swap plots, Savannah. It’s not right. And it’s not what Mom would have wanted.”

This disagreement opened up old wounds, ones that had never fully healed. Savannah had always felt that our mother favored me, and now this plot of land became a symbol of her ongoing grievances.

As spring turned into summer, the argument grew as stubbornly as the weeds in our plot. I spent my days trying to revive the garden alone, turning the soil, planting new seeds, and watering diligently. Savannah visited occasionally, but only to reiterate her displeasure and renew her accusations.

One evening, as I was watering the wilting tomatoes, Savannah arrived unannounced. “I spoke to Andrew. He agreed to swap with me,” she declared triumphantly. My heart sank. Not only had she gone behind my back, but she had also dragged Andrew into our feud.

The swap was made. Savannah took over Andrew’s lush plot, and he, somewhat bemusedly, agreed to take over ours. I continued to tend to the now doubly neglected land, feeling both betrayed and alone.

As the seasons changed, so did the garden. Savannah’s new plot thrived under her attentive care, while mine remained stubbornly barren. Flowers refused to bloom, vegetables barely sprouted, and the soil seemed to turn stonier with each passing day.

The garden, once a place of refuge and remembrance, had turned into a battleground, a constant reminder of the rift between us. Our mother’s legacy, meant to bring us together, had instead driven us apart. As I stood in the failing light, looking over the desolate land, I couldn’t help but wonder if anything would ever grow here again—not just plants, but the bonds between my sister and me.