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 together, but grief still filled our home. Each week I walked past a small flower shop on my way to the cemetery where my mother was buried. I had no money, but I wanted to leave something beautiful for her. One afternoon, with a racing heart, I took a few roses from outside the shop and hurried away.
For weeks I did the same thing, always feeling guilty but believing the flowers would make her resting place feel less lonely. One day, the shop owner caught me as I tried to leave with another handful. I froze, expecting anger. Instead, she gently asked who the flowers were for. When I told her they were for my mother’s grave, her expression softened.....
