Though my legs are tired, I run faster up my driveway, trying to put every feeling into words for Jason’s cards. Fierce, hard — my sneakers slap the tar — swift, brisk. I take off across the lawn (squishy, springy), but as I round the far corner of the house, my feet slow to a walk.

Dad is kneeling in our garden, his back to me. Watching him, I think of Kristi at her dad’s for the weekend and Melissa in California with hers. Part of me wants to run up and hug Dad from behind or cover his eyes with my hands, like I did when I was little. “Guess who?” I’d say and he’d guess everyone but me — even though we both knew he was pretending because he’d give impossible answers like “Queen Elizabeth” or “Little Bo Peep.”

Before I can decide what to do, Dad spots me.

“Look, Cath.” He twists a ripe tomato from the vine and holds it out to me. “Isn’t this beautiful? I’m sure not many people have ripe tomatoes yet.”

I walk over and take it from him. “I bet we’re the first.”

Dad’s always proud we have tomatoes before anyone else. That’s because he starts the seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill while snow’s still deep on the ground.

I study the tomato closely, drawing it in my mind. It’s so smooth I’d need dense color, layered until not even a flicker of white paper showed through. Alone, each of my colored pencils would be too bright, but blended, I could make it look real. “People usually think tomatoes are red,” I say, “but they’re more red-orange with yellow-orange streaks. And there’s even the smallest hint of purple here in the creases.”

“Purple?” He looks over, his forehead lined with concern. “Is it mold?”

It feels stupid to be jealous of a tomato, but sometimes I think Dad likes them more than he likes David and me. “No, it’s just a shadow.”

“Oh, good.” Dad turns a frilly leaf to check the underside. Standing above him, I’m startled to see more gray hair than brown on the top of Dad’s head. When did that happen?

“Have you heard from Melissa lately?” he asks.

“I got a postcard last week. Her father took her to Disneyland.” I roll my tomato between my hands, the prickly stem poking into my palm. “Maybe you and I could do something special, too? Just us?”

He sighs like it’s the millionth thing I’ve asked him for today, instead of the first. “You know we can’t afford something like that.”

“I don’t mean Disneyland. Just something, me and you.”

Dad smiles, but it’s a worn-out smile that doesn’t light his eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve been dealing with doctors and customers and staff all week. I really need to stay home today and be quiet a while.”

Watching him pick another tomato, I mouth words at the back of his head: “But what about me?”

“Maybe we could cook spaghetti tonight?” He places his tomato with the others in his basket. “These would make a great sauce.”

Before I can answer, Mom yells, “It’s three o’clock.”

Dad frowns at his watch. “I’d really like to finish up here first,” he calls to her. “I’m almost done.”

In the kitchen doorway, Mom crosses her arms over her stomach. “David has his shoes on already, and I have paperwork to do for my meeting on Monday.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad shouts.

The sound of Mom slamming the kitchen door makes me cringe. I’m torn between wanting to yell at him for choosing tomatoes over Mom and wanting to cry that he’s choosing David over me. “Maybe we could go to the mall?”

“You heard Mom, I have to take David to the video store. Do you want to come with us?”

“No, thanks. Maybe we could do something afterward?”

“Someday soon,” he says. “I promise.”

I drop my tomato in his basket with the others. I know he’s just promising to stop me from asking again. Walking away I turn once to check if Dad’s watching me go. Look for me. Staring at the back of his head, I imagine him turning left and right, searching.

He picks another tomato.