TOAST OR TORTILLAS

Ross was out mowing at 7:00 a.m. sharp—the exact minute the city ordinance allowed. The morning air still held the night’s coolness, carrying the faint scent of damp grass and fuel from his equipment.

The streets were quiet, except for the steady hum of the mower and an occasional bird announcing the day. This was his favorite hour—when the world felt clean, orderly, and ready for shaping. His body understood the rhythm; it woke with purpose.

Most days, depending on how the equipment behaved or how long a job ran, he made it home for breakfast around 10:00 or 11:00. By then, the sun had warmed the back of his neck, and the smell of cut grass clung to his clothes.

Judy, his wife, would already be halfway through preparing the usual—bacon crackling in the skillet, hash browns hissing as they crisped—and the familiar question came the moment he stepped through the back door:

“Fried or scrambled? Toast or tortillas?”

She never needed to ask anything else. She knew his routine, the way he liked to ease into the rest of his day. Ross would wash up, the warm water loosening the stiffness in his hands, then leave his boots in the mudroom, where the scent of earth and leather lingered.

They ate without hurry. The kitchen filled with the quiet sounds of forks against plates and the steady tick of the wall clock. Even with hours of work ahead, Ross never rushed breakfast. Those mornings with Judy steadied him. They reminded him what the work was for.

Ross hadn’t been a standout worker. Helping his dad frustrated him, and his father, Gregorio, didn’t hide his disappointment. His expectations were heavy, and his words could be sharp. But María, his mother, saw something different.

“He’s not you,” she would say, calm but firm. “Teach him. Show him. Correct him without crushing him.”

Over time, Gregorio adjusted. He showed Ross how to do the work, patiently, taught him the meaning of a job done well.

Then, while mowing for a neighbor, everything clicked. He was praised for his results. Ross had found his calling.

Gardening made sense to Ross in a way his father’s work never had.  It became the place where he felt capable—where effort showed results.

Years later, when he married Judy, he carried that same patience into their life together, offering it the way it had finally been given to him.

One morning, Judy noticed Ross hadn’t come home at his usual time. The kitchen felt off, the bacon grease cooling in the pan. She waited a few minutes, then checked the schedule on the fridge. He was working across town. She grabbed her keys, unease building as she drove.

Ross didn’t do fast food. Other gardeners usually grabbed a burrito or a burger between jobs, but not him. He preferred eating with Judy. He also avoided the kind of talk that filled those places—complaints, gossip, bitterness. He believed it followed a man home if he let it. So, he kept his distance.

When she arrived, his truck was exactly where it should be, trailer hitched, tools in place. But the yard was quiet. No mower. No trimmer. No Ross. Just the soft rustle of leaves.

She stepped through the open gate into the backyard.

The landscaping was finished—edges clean, grass even, flowerbeds in order. The scent of fresh clippings hung in the warming air. At the edge of the pool sat Ross, boots off, bare feet in the water. Sunlight reflected across his face as he leaned back, eyes partly closed.

“There you are,” she said, her shoulders easing.

Ross turned and smiled. “Mower gave out. I fixed it. Then I figured I’d take a minute. Just felt like I needed to stop… and be grateful—for you, for the work, for everything.”

Judy sat beside him. The stone was warm from the sun. They didn’t talk much. The water moved gently against their feet.

As she watched him flex his hands, she thought about the year before—how a hard throw from a player he was coaching had struck the back of his left hand, while he showed another player how to pivot to complete a double-play.

The crack had been sharp and unmistakable. For weeks, he worked one-handed, trying to manage anyway. She stepped in where she could—tying, lifting, even mowing, since that required two good hands. He didn’t like her working, but he never pushed her away.

Now his fingers moved easily in the water. The injury had passed, but the memory hadn’t. It left behind a quiet appreciation—not just for healing, but for having carried each other through it.

After a while, she reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Fried or scrambled? Toast or tortillas?”

Ross chuckled. “Surprise me.”

They walked back to the car together. Behind them, the pool sat still in the late-morning light.