Robert spotted the broken stake from the porch. It leaned at a strange angle, half-buried in disturbed soil, with a vine trailing behind it like a snapped tendon. He walked over slowly, heart sinking. A muddy sneaker print marked the earth—fresh. Someone had cut through again. No apology. No care.
He crouched beside the crushed grapes, brushing dirt from a torn cluster. The leaves were twisted, one stem completely severed. This wasn’t just wear and tear. It was careless, thoughtless—someone treating his vineyard like a public park. He let out a breath, steadying himself, but his jaw stayed clenched.
That evening, he stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the wind ripple through the rows. The broken stake was still out there, lying where it had fallen. He thought of how Marianne used to fix things right away, how she knew every inch of the place. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d paid more attention.
After four decades of teaching—half of them in classrooms with flickering lights and the hum of old radiators—he had longed for quiet. For fresh air. For something real he could tend with his hands. Something that grew because he cared for it.
So he bought a vineyard. It wasn’t grand. Just a modest patch of sloping earth with rows of old grapevines and creaky trellises. His wife, Marianne, had fallen in love with the place first. She had walked between the rows with her hand grazing the leaves, smiling like it reminded her of childhood.
That’s what sold it for Robert. They moved in together, promising to tend the vineyard as a shared dream. But Marianne passed just three years later. A quiet illness that left too little time. Now it was just Robert—and the grapes.
He tried to maintain it all himself. He clipped and watered and trained the vines, but something never felt quite right. Some plants refused to take. Others browned too soon. The yield was shrinking.