What Grows in Mother's Garden

Mother always told me never to go into her garden at night. "The plants are hungry after dark," she'd say. I thought it was just another of her superstitions until the night I saw her feeding them.

Our house sat on three acres at the edge of town, surrounded by dense woods on three sides. The garden took up nearly an acre behind the house—an elaborate maze of raised beds, trellises, and glass structures that Mother tended with obsessive care. It produced the most extraordinary vegetables and flowers, vibrant and perfect in ways that defied explanation. Mother sold them at the local farmers' market, where customers would marvel at their size and color, often commenting that they'd never tasted anything so delicious.

Mother's rules about the garden were absolute: I was allowed to help during daylight hours only. I must always wear the special gloves she provided. I must never, under any circumstances, enter the garden after sunset or before sunrise. And most importantly, I must never eat anything from the garden without Mother's preparation.

At sixteen, I had followed these rules without question my entire life. But teenagers are creatures of curiosity and rebellion, and one summer night, when Mother thought I was asleep, I watched from my bedroom window as she entered the garden under the full moon, carrying a large metal bucket.

I crept downstairs and followed her, staying in the shadows. The garden looked different at night—the plants seemed to sway despite the still air, their colors more vivid under the moonlight. Mother moved to the center of the garden, where her prized roses grew—massive blooms with petals like velvet and thorns like daggers.