They say gardens grow more than vegetables—they grow patience, healing, and gratitude. But when people keep stealing from you, they grow something else: defiance. I’m Mara, and I don’t garden for aesthetics or clout. I grow food for survival. Every tomato we harvest means shoes for the kids or rent paid on time.

At first, it was peaceful. The neighborhood smiled and minded their own. But after Julian set up a “community pantry” in his driveway, folks began treating my garden like it was part of the giveaway. A cucumber here, radishes there. Then came the woman who let her toddler stomp through my tomatoes like it was a playground. That night, I cried over dinner I could no longer make.

I put up signs. A fence. A tarp. But they didn’t care. People climbed over it, tore things down, ignored the boundaries. A Bluetooth-wearing man even trespassed mid-call, stealing cherry tomatoes for his wife’s salad—like that made it noble. Teens turned my rows into a hangout, leaving trash and trampling plants I’d bent over in blistering heat to grow.

This garden is my lifeline, not a public buffet. I don’t owe anyone my harvest or my silence. I’ve learned that sometimes, you don’t just grow food—you grow a spine. And I’ve grown mine in rows, under sun and sweat, watered by everything I’ve had to endure to feed my family.