I was born on a market day. Grew up napping under the tables and counting back change before I lost my baby teeth. And now, some Saturdays, I return — to the same booth, the same rhythm, the same quiet pride that raised me.

Not every childhood starts before sunrise, behind a big tractor, or ends with watermelon cracked open in the field. But mine did. This is the beginning of The Rows Behind the House — a subseries of The Apricot Years, rooted in sweat, trust, and sweetness.