The basil, waning in my garden at the end of its season, reminds me of the first basil I ever planted. Nine years ago, I filled a pot with a seedling and kept it in a sunny corner of the back deck. I had just moved into the first non-apartment of my adult life, a charming hundred-year-old, two-family rowhouse in Brooklyn. John, our contractor (and my husband’s second cousin), was renovating our kitchen. The basil grew like a tree.

When the kitchen was finished, the basil died. I can’t believe I was naive enough to think the two events were coincidences. John set me straight and told me he had been watering the plants twice a day.

What strikes me about this anecdote (besides how foolish I was) is how John’s behind-the-scenes helpfulness is like what parents do every day. John had every reason to believe I would be savvy enough to continue to water, but I wasn’t. I want to be careful not to assume that my children will know how to take over the invisible work my husband and I do every day to keep their lives running.