Every week after school, I visited the shop. I would wipe my shoes before entering and quietly tell her which flowers I thought my mother would like—lilies, tulips, sometimes daisies.
She never asked for money.
Sometimes she’d smile and say,
“Your mother had good taste,”
and add an extra flower.
Those afternoons became my safe place.
The shop smelled like fresh earth and sunlight—a space where life kept growing, even when grief felt heavy.
She never asked for anything in return.
She simply gave.
Ten years later, I returned.
I had moved away, gone to college, and built a life—but I never forgot her.
This time, I came back for my wedding.
I walked into the same shop.
It looked older now, smaller. The sign had faded, but the scent was unchanged.
