When I confronted Rose, she quietly confirmed it. She and Mr. Sloan had been young, broke, and scared when they gave up their daughter—me. Mr. Sloan had found me years later but didn’t have the courage to tell me. That’s why he moved next door. That’s why he left the house to me—so I’d have something from him, even if he couldn’t say the words himself. And Rose? She was more than a responsibility. She was my mother. The woman I never thought I’d meet.

His final letter broke something open in me: “Watching you grow your garden was the only thing that kept me going. I hope you can forgive me—and her.” I didn’t know if I could forgive them right away. But I wanted to try. And that mattered. In the end, the roses we planted—his, mine, and now ours—bent in the wind, but didn’t break. Just like us.