What Grows in Mother's Garden

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She set down the bucket and began to speak in a language I didn't recognize—guttural and rhythmic. The roses seemed to respond, their stems elongating, thorns extending toward her like eager fingers.

Mother rolled up her sleeve and drew a knife across her forearm. Blood welled from the cut, dripping into the soil around the roses. The earth seemed to bubble and shift where the blood fell, and the roses trembled, their blooms opening wider.

Then she reached into the bucket and removed something pale and glistening—a chunk of meat far too large to be from any animal sold at the local butcher. She buried it at the base of the largest rose bush, patting the soil down tenderly.

"Grow strong," she whispered in English. "Grow beautiful."

I must have made a sound, because Mother suddenly stiffened and turned. Our eyes met across the garden, and in that moment, I knew I had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

"Lily," she said, her voice eerily calm. "You know the rules."

I ran back to the house, locking myself in my room. Mother didn't follow immediately. When she finally came upstairs an hour later, her hands were clean, her expression serene.

"We need to talk about the garden," she said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

She explained that our family had tended this land for generations, practicing what she called "the old ways." The garden was a place of exchange—blood and flesh for beauty and sustenance. The plants required certain nutrients that could only be found in human tissue.

"Where does the meat come from?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"The hospital morgue," she said. "Your father's position as a pathologist has its advantages. No one misses what we take."

I felt a momentary relief, until she added, "Usually."

Over the following weeks, Mother began to include me in her nighttime gardening, teaching me the incantations, showing me how different plants responded to different offerings. The roses preferred heart muscle. The tomatoes thrived on liver. The peculiar blue flowers that Mother never sold required eyes.

"One day, this will all be yours," she said proudly. "You'll keep the garden growing, as I have, as my mother did before me."

I nodded, playing the dutiful daughter while secretly planning my escape. I would leave after graduation, move far away, never look back.

But the garden had other plans.

I noticed the changes gradually—my fingernails growing thicker, taking on a greenish hue. Small, thorn-like protrusions forming along my spine. My hair, once brown, developing streaks of vivid red that matched Mother's prized roses.

When I confronted her, she smiled sadly. "The garden claims what it's owed, Lily. Did you think all those years of breathing its air, eating its fruits, wouldn't change you? It's in your blood now. In your bones."

I tried to leave three times. Each attempt ended the same way—no matter how far I drove, I would wake up back in my bed, dirt under my fingernails, the taste of soil in my mouth.

Mother died last spring. Heart failure, the doctor said. I buried her in the center of the garden, beneath her beloved roses. They've grown even more magnificent since, their blooms now the exact shade of Mother's hair.

I tend the garden now, sell the produce at the farmers' market. People still marvel at the vibrant colors, the extraordinary flavors. Sometimes they ask my secret.

"Family tradition," I tell them with a smile, ignoring the itch of new thorns pushing through the skin of my wrists.

At night, I carry my bucket to the garden and feed the hungry plants. They recognize me now, bending toward me as I approach, quivering with anticipation.

And sometimes, when the moon is full, I swear I can hear Mother's voice in the rustle of the rose leaves, whispering: "Grow strong. Grow beautiful."

I do. With each passing day, I become more like the garden. And the garden becomes more like me.