Rei laughed, but she tried it anyway. She whispered, “Grow strong, little radish, and become a good part of our dinner.” To her surprise, the radishes that season were the crispest she had ever tasted. Hideo smiled and said, “You see? A little love can make a big difference.”

Rei blushed, feeling a tear slide down her cheek. “I love you, Hideo‑san,” she said simply. “More than I ever imagined I could love anyone besides my own family.”

“I’m scared,” she confessed. “I love Takashi, but I also love… this place, you, and everything we’ve built here. I feel torn between my husband and my father‑in‑law.”

Rei Kimura had never imagined that the word “in‑law” could feel so warm, so familiar, and—most of all—so essential to her life. She had grown up in a small town on the edge of Osaka, the daughter of a diligent schoolteacher and a quiet accountant. Her days were filled with school festivals, after‑school piano lessons, and the occasional night‑time study sessions that stretched until the neon lights of the city flickered on. She was, by all accounts, an ordinary girl with ordinary dreams: a good job, a happy marriage, maybe a dog someday.

Hideo placed his hand lightly on hers. “Rei‑san, love is not a competition. It is a garden. If you water one flower too much, the others may wilt. But if you share the water, every blossom thrives. You can love Takashi and love me, and you can love both because the love you have for each of us is different, not contradictory.”

And that, dear reader, is why Rei often says, “I love my father‑in‑law more than my…self when I think of the garden we’ve built together.”