I loved mornings in the suburbs—my garden, the freedom, the fresh air. As a florist, online orders and word of mouth kept me busy, especially with summer weddings. My roses were a hit.
One morning, instead of tidy rose rows, I found a mound of dark soil—Mr. Sloan had struck again. Furious, I stormed over to confront him, but discovered that his wife, Linda, had died. His lawyer appeared at the funeral: I was to inherit Sloan’s house—only if I took in an elderly woman named Rose and cared for her as long as she wished. Without the house, I’d lose my livelihood—but his garden could revive my business. Reluctantly, I agreed.
Rose seemed sweet at first, but her constant demands—broccoli at dawn, peeled tomato matchsticks, midnight milk, medication runs—started wearing me down. One morning in the garage, I found a box of old photos: one showed a woman who looked just like me holding a baby, alongside a young Mr. Sloan. On the back: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
Shock hit me—could I be his daughter? Rose confirmed: she and Sloan had a daughter in 1985 but gave her up because they couldn’t afford her. Sloan searched for her his whole life, watching me work in his garden, hoping I’d be his daughter. He left me the house and Rose, wanting us to reconnect—even if Rose’s health meant she needed help.
Now, with the envelope in my hands, I’m on the brink of discovering the truth he held back—my real truth.