Maya stomped into the backyard and crossed her arms. "I don't want to plant a garden!" she complained to her grandmother. "It's too hot outside, and I'll get dirt under my fingernails."
Grandmother smiled softly. "Just try it for one afternoon. If you still don't like it, you can stop."
Maya frowned but picked up a small shovel. She dug a hole and dropped in some tiny seeds. "This is boring," she muttered. But Grandmother showed her how to pat the soil gently, like tucking the seeds into bed.
Every day for two weeks, Maya watered her seeds. At first, she rushed through it. But slowly, she started to notice things: a tiny green sprout pushing through the dirt, a ladybug resting on a leaf, the way the morning sun made the dew sparkle.
"Grandmother, look!" Maya shouted one morning. Her tomato plant had a small yellow flower. Maya couldn't stop smiling.
By summer's end, Maya had her own basket of bright red tomatoes. "Can we plant even more next year?" she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.