A Bouquet for My Mother
When I was twelve, I used to take flowers from a small shop down the street and place them on my mother’s grave.
She had passed away the year before, and my father worked long hours. He was often too tired to notice how often I slipped out. I didn’t have money, but bringing flowers made me feel close to her—as if something beautiful could still connect us.
One afternoon, the shop owner caught me. I froze, holding a few roses, my heart pounding.
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