The following Saturday, just after his funeral, a knock at the door revealed a man in a long coat with flowers and an envelope. Inside, Grandpa’s handwriting gave us an address to visit. My grandma’s hands shook as we drove, fear and anticipation twisting in her chest.
When we arrived, a woman named Ruby welcomed us into a small cottage and led us to the backyard. My grandma stopped in her tracks. There, sprawling in secret splendor, was a garden filled with every flower Grandpa had ever brought home: roses, tulips, lilies, daisies, and wildflowers in every imaginable color. Ruby explained that Grandpa had purchased the property years ago, carefully planning the garden as a final gift—so Grandma would always have “Saturday flowers,” even after he was gone.
My grandma sank to her knees, clutching his final note. The secret wasn’t betrayal—it was love, still blooming, even when we thought it had ended.