"Dear William."

"Just because I don't tell you every little thing doesn't mean anything. I sold the landscaping business years ago, before you were even born, son. Who do you think has been helping fund the Cat Trust all these years, anyway?

"And no, I don't do actual landscaping work any more. I'm retired; I'm 16, I've earned it. But I've advised Mom with everything she's done in the yard. When Mom took out those ant-eaten railroad ties and made that gently curving rock bed with draught-tolerant evergreen bushes? That was me. And that butterfly bush and the pincushion plant and the Russian sage where your summer pets live? All me. And when we had the dead tree cut down last year? It's because I told Mom it would be dangerous with all the wind we get to risk keeping it there. And that little area that had all weeds and tree limbs and that ugly out-of-control cactus and trash in it when we first moved here? Whose idea do you think it was to do that mixed media arrangement of little river rock, mountain stones and eucalyptus mulch with the Spanish broom? You do notice that she doesn't kill herself every weekend trying to keep that area clean, now, do you. Well, that was me too.

"Why, I even told Mom this year that the birds would be even more fun to watch if they were framed with hanging baskets of colorful flowers. So while you might have had the idea about the gazing ball, the rest of it was me. All the rest of it.

"And William? I'd say just enjoy the extra non-yard time Mom has now after all my help and expertise, and quit jumping to tiny conclusions.

"Your big brother who doesn't mind you too much if you don't bug too much,
Eddie."