A Bouquet for My Mother
When I was twelve, I used to take flowers from a small shop down the street and place them on my mother’s grave.
She had died the year before, and my father worked long hours, too tired to notice how often I slipped out. I had no money. But bringing flowers to her made me feel close to her—as if something beautiful could still connect us.
One afternoon, the shop owner caught me.
I stood there holding a few roses, my heart racing.
I expected anger. Maybe worse.
But instead, the woman—around her fifties, with gentle, tired eyes—said,
“If they’re for your mother, take them properly. She deserves better than stolen flowers.”
I stared at her, confused.
“You’re… not mad?”
She shook her head.
“No. Just come through the front door next time.”
From then on, everything changed.
