Laura took a step back, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh no… not this again,” she said, not even trying to lower her voice.

I stayed still, staring into the box.

There it was.

Bundles of freshly picked greens, still damp, dirt clinging to the roots. Eggs wrapped carefully in old newspaper. A jar of homemade salsa, the kind my mom always made by hand. And in a separate bag, dried fish—sealed tight, but still impossible to contain completely.

Simple things.

Ordinary to anyone else.

Everything to me.

“It’s just stuff from the ranch,” I said quietly. “She always sends things like this…”

“But why?” Laura cut in, now looking straight at me. “We have a supermarket here. We don’t need this.”

I didn’t answer right away—not because I had nothing to say, but because I knew anything I said would sound like an excuse.

She picked up one of the bags between two fingers, like she didn’t want to touch it.

“Look at this. There’s dirt on it. Do you think this is hygienic?”

“It can be washed,” I replied softly.

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “We don’t live like that anymore.”

Her tone wasn’t angry.

It was worse.

It was certain.

I looked back at the box and imagined my mother early in the morning, selecting each item, cleaning them as best she could, packing everything carefully—thinking of us… of her grandson… wondering if we would like it.

“It’s thoughtful,” I said. “She sends it with love.”

Laura gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Love? That’s a strange way of showing it.”

The silence that followed felt heavy.

I didn’t know how to defend something that was obvious to me but meaningless to her.

Then Laura sighed, as if she had already decided.

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