It started out small; just some roses here, hydrangeas there. The flowers peppered the garden like freckles. The freshly packed snow glistened in the sun.

“How are those plants still alive?” My brother asked.

“I have no idea,” I complained. “Those flowers have been there since May. They’re pretty, sure, but they won’t stop growing, no matter how much I prune them,” I lamented.

“I don’t unders...