PART 3

One afternoon, Leo saw Dale fixing a gutter.

He asked if he needed help.

Dale initially said no.

Then changed his mind.

Leo spent half an hour handing him tools from the ground.

When he came inside afterward, he said,

“I don’t think Dale is really mean.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think he is?”

Leo shrugged.

“Maybe lonely.”

For a nine-year-old, it wasn’t a bad assessment.

The following August, the apples began falling again.

Maya was seven now.

Leo was ten.

One Sunday afternoon, they went outside with the same blue bucket.

They began picking up apples.

Then Dale appeared at the fence.

Both children stopped.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Then Dale asked,

“You doing the applesauce again?”

“If we get enough,” Leo answered.

Dale nodded.

“I’ve got a whole bushel over here I won’t use.”

He disappeared for a moment.

Then returned carrying a heavy bag.

He lifted it across the fence.

“You want these too?”

Leo looked at Maya.

Maya looked at Leo.

“Yeah,” Leo said. “We’ll use them.”

“Surplus,” Dale muttered. “Can’t use it.”

Then he went inside.

Maya stared at the bag.

“He gave us apples.”

“He did.”

“So we can make more food for the food bank.”

“We can.”

She picked up the blue bucket.

And made four trips.

She always made four trips.

That was simply how many trips her small arms needed.

This time, nobody made her feel ashamed of it.

I watched from the deck.

And understood something else.

Children are always watching.

Even when we think they aren’t.

They are learning what adults do when someone embarrasses them.

What anger looks like.

What fairness looks like.

What dignity looks like.

Maya and Leo didn’t learn their biggest lesson from the afternoon Dale called them thieves.

They learned it from everything that followed.

They learned that you don’t have to become cruel because someone treated you cruelly.

They learned that bad situations can sometimes be turned into something useful.

They learned that a calm letter can accomplish more than yelling across a fence.

They learned that making food for someone who needs it feels better than holding onto anger.

They learned that people sometimes bring apples instead of apologies.

And while that might not be everything you wanted, sometimes it is still worth accepting.

The stain from that old rotten apple is still visible on our shed.

We painted over it once.

Eventually, it came through again.

One day I overheard Leo explaining it to a friend.

“A rotten apple damaged the paint.”

“How?”

“It stayed there too long,” Leo said. “If someone had moved it sooner, it probably wouldn’t have caused any damage.”

He was talking about an apple.

But Rob and I looked at each other.

Because he was also talking about other things.

Some problems become worse when you leave them sitting too long.

The apple tree is still there.

It will probably outlive all of us.

Its branches still cross the fence.

Every August, apples still fall into both yards.

Now Dale leaves his extra bag beside our cooler.

We make applesauce.

Maya still creates the labels.

Last year, she drew the tree on every jar.

Its branches stretched across both sides of a little fence.

She showed me one.

“See the fence?”

I looked closely.

A thin line ran through the picture.

“I see it.”

“The apples don’t care about the fence,” she said.

“No. They don’t.”

“But we know it’s there.”

She thought for a second.

“We just decided to make food instead of fighting about it.”

Seven years old.

And somehow she understood everything.

This year, the food bank received eighty-three jars.

Maya says they were her best labels yet.

Leo helped press the cider himself.

And one Thursday morning, Dale’s bag of extra apples appeared on our side of the fence.

No note.

He never leaves one.

He doesn’t need to anymore.

We understand.