And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed by Tricia Lott Williford

that’s great. But I argued that the plant should be fuller near the soil and then grow in length. But any time I pruned it, Robb worried, tossing out accusations that I was trying to kill his mom’s plant. I wasn’t. She even confirmed that it could benefit from some cutting back so it might grow in fullness. Perhaps less stringy.
    Anytime I cut it back, he was sure I had killed it.
Killed. Maimed. Done for. Tricia hates plants. She wants to kill anything that represents life and conception.
Such were the assumptions. I was really sure I was right, but he was sure that my right-fighting would lead to the plant’s demise.
    So you know what I did? I rooted my own.
Here. You have yours, I’ll have mine, and they are both born from the same mother vine. Youcare for yours any way you choose, and I’ll care for mine in the way I deem best. If either of us is wrong, we’ll still have another strong, healthy plant. A souvenir of who was right all along.
    We watched each other’s plants. It became a serious competition. Mine sat in a glass of water next to his potted version. As soon as my darling plant had strong enough roots to dig into soil, I planned to equip her with her very own home in a lovely yellow pot. We watched. We trash talked. His grew longer, mine grew deeper, and we stood firm in our convictions.
    And then there was that day I walked in the door from a morning of teaching and poured myself a tall glass of water. That’s when I saw it. The glass that had held the shapely baby roots was gone. In its place sat a colorful pot with a small, freshly potted plant.
    “What? What … is … this?” I demanded, completely aghast, with my hands splayed across the kitchen counter as if I had seen a dead rodent next to the toaster.
    “I planted it for you.”
    “Why on earth would you do that?”
    “I was helping you. I thought I was doing something nice.”
    I blew a gasket. I was furious. “Do something nice for your plant, not
mine
! That is mine, my plant. Mine.
Mine!
”
    Firstborn children like to be in charge. Since both of us were firstborn in every way, Robb and I often vied for domains of control in our home. We often said to each other, “Hey. This is mine. You find something else to be in charge of.” Now he had potted my plant, and all under the guise of doing something nice for his wife? Ha. I sniffed that one out. I was sure he was trying to sabotage my efforts, stickingthis poor, dear plant in thick soil before she had the hearty strength to stand on her own. I threw a fit. I really did. It wasn’t pretty.
    He stood by his intentions: to be kind.
    I stood by my contention: that plant was mine to be kind to.
    He found the end of his tolerance for my juvenile tantrum. “Fine. Fine. Fine! Tricia.
Fine.
Here you go.” Robb plucked the plant, roots and all, from its freshly packed soil. He dropped the whole thing in my fresh glass of water.
    I gasped and shrieked.
    “There. Happy? I was just trying to do something nice for you.”
    I watched with silent, gritted teeth as the water turned brown and bits of soil floated to the bottom of the glass. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll take care of my own plant. Keep your hands to yourself and your own plants, thank you very much.”
    We spent a hearty day and a half in our separate corners of the house, fuming at each other and avoiding contact of any kind. That’s what marriages are made of, really: silly fights over cookie crumbs and bathroom towels and expired salad dressing. Those are the little ditties that forever give you something new to talk about, when you think you’ve learned each other inside and out. Just when you think you’ve grown accustomed to the quirks.
    The plant has now lived longer than he did. Born before he was, it still thrives on our kitchen counter. Eventually I married the two plants; I repotted my (healthy and thriving) plant in a larger pot with his (which is now doing well since I have trimmed it back, as it naturally should