Chapter 9: The Violet Blooms
That subsequent summer, the African Violet erupted. It pushed forth a massive, vibrant crown of deep purple blossoms in the deep windowsill of a house that was, finally and unequivocally, ours.
My grandmother sat perpetually bathed in the premium morning light, with my daughter bouncing on her knees, weaving the kind of sprawling, nonsensical stories that possess no narrative point other than the sheer transmission of love.
Brenda Cassell dropped by occasionally, entirely off the clock, bringing pastries. Dr. Whitman surprised us one afternoon, arriving with a potted plant of his own as a belated housewarming gift. A cadre of trauma nurses I had fought beside in the trenches for years frequently filled my new kitchen with uproarious, inappropriate laughter.
I had entirely stopped waiting to be granted readmission into the broken family I had spawned from. I simply constructed a new one out of the specific human beings who had actually bothered to show up for the war.
It was a strange, profoundly beautiful summer. My grandmother aggressively taught Brenda’s youngest teenager how to play Cutthroat Gin Rummy at my dining table, cheated with spectacular audacity, got caught red-handed, and cackled with unapologetic delight. Maeve learned how to grasp a tiny fistful of the violet’s fuzzy leaves, requiring gentle, constant relocation from the windowsill while Ruth loudly narrated the infant’s “botanical crimes.”
Dr. Whitman’s housewarming gift ultimately revealed itself to be a violently aggressive tomato seedling. My grandmother initially declared the gift a profound personal insult to a woman who had cultivated a master garden for sixty years. She then proceeded to meticulously nurse it on the back patio until it yielded more heirloom tomatoes than three households could conceivably consume. We handed the surplus over the wooden fences to our new neighbors. For the first time in my existence, we possessed enough abundance to freely give it away.
Ruth caught me silently observing the chaos one humid afternoon. Three generations of women, a cluttered table, the golden hour light spilling across the hardwood, the sound of my sister laughing in the kitchen.
I was forced to turn my face toward the glass because the violet suddenly blurred in my vision, and I needed the tears to remain a private victory.
“You brought me back from the grave, Danny,” my grandmother murmured, rhythmically squeezing Maeve’s tiny foot. One. Two. Three. “Now, sit down and watch me thoroughly spoil this child. We are going to grow everything those fools threw away.”
I want to leave you with this final thought, because I know with absolute certainty that some of you reading this have been trapped in the suffocating role of ‘the helper,’ too.
My name is Danny Howerin. For the vast majority of my existence, other people tightly gripped the pen that authored my identity. I was designated as the one who cleaned up the debris. The one who supposedly wasn’t emotionally equipped for grander pursuits. The one who was just so perfectly, tragically ‘good with the dying.’
They intentionally omitted a few critical attributes from that list. So, allow me to state the entirety of my identity now, authored entirely in my own hand:
I am a medical professional. I am my daughter’s fierce protector. I am the woman who violently intercepted her grandmother’s legacy before it could be auctioned off in stolen pieces. I am the one who honors her word.
And I am the one who watches.
You do not require their permission to possess inherent value. You do not require them to applaud your boundaries, or issue a tearful apology, or finally comprehend the damage they inflicted. You do not even require them to physically vacate the premises.
You exclusively need to stop handing them the pen.
They foolishly assumed I was only good with the dying. They tragically forgot that I was watching the machinery the entire time. I am the one who watches.
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