She stood behind the counter, her hair now silver.
She didn’t recognize me.
“I’d like a bouquet,” I said. “For my wedding.”
Her face lit up.
“Congratulations, dear. What kind?”
“Daisies,” I answered immediately.
As she wrapped them, I spoke softly.
“You once let a little girl take flowers without paying. They were for her mother’s grave.”
Her hands stopped.
She looked up slowly.
“That was you?”
I nodded.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I knew your mother,” she said quietly. “And your grandmother too. They were kind to me when I first opened this shop.”
She gently touched the daisies.
“Your mother came every Sunday. She always chose daisies—said they reminded her of home.”
