I could hardly believe my eyes when the dryad came out to join Richard. I’d seen little bits of her for years: an arm extending from the tree trunk to bask in the afternoon light, a leg curled over a thick branch, and once many years ago, a game of peek-a-boo with my son, her eyes popping in and out of the bark in just the right way to make him giggle that unselfconscious baby laugh.

But never before had I seen her fully emerge from her oak tree. Setting the dishes in the sink to soak, I dried my hands and pressed closer to the kitchen window.

Richard sat on his sun-covered garden bench, as he did for an hour or so most afternoons since he retired. As he spotted her, he too leaned closer to look.

Though her oak tree was thick with age, its branches gnarled as they twisted towards the sky, the dryad’s face was unlined and smooth, her arms and legs willowy as a ballet dancer. She wore a filmy dress the same color as her ashen skin, a shade or two paler than the oak’s bark. Decades older than me, she could pass for my granddaughter.

Twirling towards Richard, her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. As she stepped through the tulips surrounding his bench, he looked to the sky, pretending not to see her. I grinned, thinking how much fun we’d have talking about her later—like the time a white deer wandered into the backyard—until I saw the blush spreading through his cheeks.

Alighting on the bench next to him, she whispered something into his ear. He chuckled, his thin shoulders jerking up and down like a chicken. A few moments later, she slid her hand into his, their fingers intertwining. I expected him to pull back, to remind her about me, his wife—remember that woman who also lives here?—but instead he gave her a shy smile.

Hot flushes tingled from my fingertips to my neck. I’d heard stories of men falling in love with dryads, but I’d never expected it of Richard—or that old oak.

She’d been in our backyard the entire time we’d lived in this house, over forty years. Our kids built tiny forts with her acorns as children, brooded in her shadow as teenagers. How long had she been eyeing my husband?

I smoothed down my hair, more wiry gray now than silky brown. I’d never again be as beautiful as the dryad, if ever I was.

They giggled again. I unlatched the kitchen window, letting in the spring breeze with just a hint of summer. But birds chirped in the azaleas outside, obscuring their words.

Then, he gave her that goofy grin I fell in love with so many years ago, and my chest ached. It had been so long since he’d looked at me that way.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

That was too far. No one else kissed my husband, especially not in my own backyard. I wouldn’t stand for it.

Flinging open the kitchen door, I called out, “Richard! Time for dinner!” It was only mid-afternoon, but high time for him to come inside. I stood in the doorway, breath heaving, shaking like a horse who’d just finished a race.

Instead of vanishing as dryads usually did when startled, she remained seated while Richard rose from the bench. “Coming!” he grumbled.

They timidly smiled at each other, then she turned to me. While I didn’t expect her to look guilty—could a tree feel shame?—her gaze was infuriatingly cool and calm. I glared at her, images of sharp saws filling my vision. I could do it—would do it.

Then the dryad tilted her head. “I wanted to see him smile again,” she called. Her eyes suddenly filled with such pity and compassion that my rage went out like a fire doused. Glancing once more at Richard, she vanished back into the tree trunk.

I stood trembling in the doorframe while Richard ambled to the house. She knew. The dryad somehow knew about Richard’s illness. I searched my memory, but I couldn’t remember discussing it anywhere near her.

“You scared her away,” Richard said petulantly. Then he grinned. “Did you see her? She kissed me! Can you believe it?” He giggled from deep in his belly, just as our son did when the dryad had played peek-a-boo so many years ago.

Despite myself, I smiled back. The dryad was right: Richard hadn’t been happy for weeks. It was good to see him smile again.

“What’s for dinner…” Then he stopped and searched my face, puzzled. “What was your name again?”

Swallowing hard, I said, “Margaret—Maggie.”

“I dated a Maggie once. Wonder what happened to her?”

I moved aside to let him in. When he was safe inside, I stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “You married her, forty-three years ago,” I whispered.

Turning, I followed the garden path to the roots of the oak tree. “How did you…” I started, but left the thought unfinished. It didn’t matter how she knew. What mattered was that I had one more person—or tree—looking out for Richard. I’d need that more than ever in the coming days. “Thank you for the smile.”

Her leaves twisted and rustled in the breeze. I wiped at my eyes and followed Richard back inside the house.