I loved mornings in my suburban garden—the fresh air, tending roses for brides, and the freedom of my florist life. But one morning, I found a pile of dark soil buried among my rose bushes. Furious, I blamed Mr. Sloan, my spiteful neighbor. I stormed over, only to learn he’d died the previous night. At his funeral, his lawyer surprised me: Sloan left me his house—on one condition: I must take in Mrs. Rose D., an elderly woman, for as long as she wished.
Reluctantly, I agreed. His house’s roses could revive my lost business. Mrs. Rose seemed harmless at first, but soon she required all sorts of care—steamed broccoli, peeled tomatoes, midnight medicine runs. Exhausted, I discovered a box of old photos: one showed a young Rose holding a baby next to a young Mr. Sloan, captioned “Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
Confronting Rose, she revealed the truth: she and Sloan were the baby’s parents—me. I grew up in foster care, never knowing my family. She handed me a letter from Sloan, confessing he couldn’t face me earlier but had watched me grow from afar, hoping I’d tend to Rose someday. He asked me to forgive my mother—and him.
I cried for the first time in years. Rose and I held hands, both broken but ready to start healing together. Outside, the roses swayed but didn’t break—and neither would we.