It wasn’t large or particularly heavy, but something about it stood out—it had been wrapped with care, layers of tape securing every corner, as if the person who sent it wanted to make sure nothing inside would be lost or damaged.

I recognized it instantly.

“It’s from my mom,” I said, almost automatically.

Emily, who was standing in the kitchen scrolling through her phone, barely reacted. She just frowned slightly, like she already knew what this meant.

I placed the box on the table. It carried the marks of a long trip—dust along the edges, worn corners—and that unmistakable smell. Not unpleasant. Just… real. Earthy. Like damp soil and open air. Like something that didn’t come from a store shelf.

Before I could even open it, Emily walked over.

“Let’s see…” she muttered, pulling at the tape without much patience.

The lid came off.

And the smell rushed out.

Strong. Honest. Almost like it brought a piece of another place into the room.

Emily stepped back, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh no… not this again,” she said, not even lowering her voice.

I stayed still, looking inside.

There it was.

Bundles of wild greens, still slightly damp, bits of dirt clinging to the roots. Eggs wrapped carefully in old newspaper, arranged so none would break. A jar of homemade salsa—ground by hand, just like my mom used to make it. And in a separate bag, dried fish, sealed tight… though the scent always found a way through.

Simple things.

Ordinary to anyone else.

Everything to me.

“It’s from the farm,” I said quietly. “She always sends—”

“But why?” Emily cut in, looking straight at me now. “We have grocery stores here. We don’t need this.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Not because I couldn’t.

But because I knew whatever I said wouldn’t matter.

She picked up one of the bags, holding it between her fingers like it bothered her.

“Look at this,” she said. “There’s still dirt on it. You think this is clean?”

“You wash it,” I replied softly.

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “The point is—we don’t live like this anymore.”

Her voice wasn’t loud.

It was certain.

And that made it harder.

I looked back at the box.

I imagined my mom waking up early, picking each thing by hand, cleaning it as best she could, packing it carefully. Thinking about us… about her grandson… hoping we’d like it.

“It’s just a gesture,” I said. “She sends it with love.”

Emily let out a short laugh.

“Love?” she repeated. “That’s a strange way to show it.”