The morning we signed the final agreement, the conservatory was bright with new leaves.
I arrived before sunrise to check the east roof. The replacement panels had held through the last storm. The repaired drain was clear. Along the upper garden, the first pale flowers had opened beside the stone path.
I ran my hand over the old worktable in the greenhouse. There were scratches from paint cans, a burn mark from the time Daniel had set down a hot kettle, and a shallow groove where I had cut twine for a thousand bouquets.
The place had never been just a business. That was why it was so difficult to divide. Aster House held the years when we were happiest, the years when we had worked too hard to notice, and all the ordinary mornings between them.
I had hired Tessa as general manager. She
