Two mothers—one South-Indian, one Texan red cardinal—have found themselves in a polite but spirited rivalry over the figs that ripen in our backyard.

We planted the tree just two summers ago, coaxing it through Texas heat until, this year, it rewarded us with a small miracle: a fresh fig almost every other day. By mid-season our count reached 33, each one celebrated by my children the moment its skin blushed purple.

Only later did we realize we had company. A female cardinal nested in the oaks beyond the creek had been watching the same fruit, making silent notes on which one would be ready next. At dawn she would swoop in, aiming for the juiciest fig—often minutes before my wife stepped outside with her harvest basket.

The contest escalated. My wife began slipping mesh covers over the nearly-ripe figs the evening before, hoping to claim at least half the bounty for our breakfast table. One night our daughter asked, “Is the bird being bad?” My wife shook her head: “No, sweetie. She’s another mom feeding her family. We’ll keep one for us and leave one for her.”

And so an unspoken treaty emerged: covered figs for us, uncovered figs for the cardinal. Day after day the ritual played out—my wife selecting and shielding, the cardinal respecting the arrangement and taking only what was offered.

Does the bird understand the bargain? From our side of the glass, it feels like mutual respect; from her side of the branch, perhaps it is simply the path of least resistance. Either way, two households thrive on the same tree, proving that the earth’s gifts are richest when shared rather than guarded.

I still catch myself wondering: what story would the cardinal tell about us?