My thumb hovers over the red send button. It’s nine o’clock at night, and I’m sitting in my Ford F-250 with the engine idling, headlights off, invisible in the shadows of the Miller estate. Through the windshield, I can see them on the balcony—Preston and Genevieve, my parents—champagne glasses catching the light, their laughter carrying across the manicured lawn I used to mow for free.

The phone screen glows: Project Oak Root. Execute Eviction. My other hand grips the steering wheel so tight my knuckles have gone white.

The truck smells like potting soil and diesel. Mud is caked on the floor mats. My boots leave prints on the pedals.

“I was going to save you,” I whisper to the windshield. “But then I heard what you said.”

Twelve hours earlier, I was pruning a Japanese maple when Genevieve called. No hello, no how are you doing.

Just, “Delilah,” her voice sharp as pruning shears. “I need you to bring the juniper bonsai tonight.”

I paused mid-cut, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. The greenhouse was humid, glass walls fogged with condensation.

My hands were still dirt-stained from repotting succulents that morning. “The gala’s tonight?” I’d said. “Obviously.

Forty years of the Miller Art Gallery. We’re expecting investors.”

There was a pause, then the tone shifted to something I knew too well. Condescending.

Patient. Like explaining arithmetic to a slow child. “You owe us this much, Delilah.

After everything.”

After everything. The words settled in my chest like stones. I’d looked at the bonsai then.

Five years of careful cultivation. Competition winner. Valued at eight thousand dollars.

The branches twisted just right, each needle placed by nature and my patience. It sat on the display table in perfect afternoon light, roots anchored in soil I’d mixed myself. “It’s not really appropriate for a centerpiece,” I’d said.

“It needs specific conditions.”

“Don’t be difficult.” Genevieve’s voice hardened. “We’re cash-poor right now and we need to impress the Vanderbilts. Bring the tree.

Six o’clock.”

She hung up before I could respond. I should have said no. Should have laughed and gone back to work.

But I didn’t. Instead, I stood there in my greenhouse, surrounded by two hundred plants I’d grown from seeds and cuttings. Owner of a business that cleared six figures last year.