When I was twelve, life already felt heavier than it should have. My mother had passed away the year before, and the quiet she left behind seemed to follow me everywhere. My father worked long hours to keep things going, and while he cared deeply, grief had settled into our home in a way neither of us quite knew how to handle.
Every week, I walked past a small flower shop on my way to the cemetery where my mother was buried. I didn’t have any money, but I wanted to leave something beautiful for her. One afternoon, with a racing heart and shaking hands, I took a few roses from outside the shop and hurried away.
I told myself it was for a good reason.
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