At twelve, I used to steal flowers from a small shop down the street to place on my mother’s grave. She had passed away the year before, and my father worked long hours, too tired to notice how often I slipped out. I didn’t have any money, and something about bringing her flowers made me feel closer to her, as if beauty could bridge the distance between the living and the lost.
One afternoon, the owner caught me—roses in hand, heart pounding. I froze, expecting shouting, maybe even the police. Instead, the woman, who looked to be in her fifties with kind but weary eyes, simply said, “If they’re for your mother, take them properly.
She deserves better than stolen stems.”
I didn’t understand at first. My lips trembled as I whispered, “You’re… not angry?”
She shook her head. “No.
But next time, come through the front door.”
From that day on, she let me choose any bouquet I wanted, every week, without asking for a cent. I would stop by after school, brush the dirt off my shoes, and quietly tell her which flowers I thought my mother would like that day—lilies, tulips, or daisies. Sometimes she’d smile and say, “Your mother had good taste,” before slipping an extra bloom into the wrapping.
Those afternoons became my secret comfort. The flower shop smelled of soil and sunshine, of life continuing no matter how much you missed someone. The woman never asked for anything in return—she just gave, gently and without explanation.
Ten years passed. I left town, went to college, built a life. But I never forgot her.
When I returned, it was for a happier reason—my wedding. I walked back into that same shop, now slightly smaller and older-looking, the paint fading on the sign but the scent still the same. The owner stood behind the counter, her hair more silver than brown.
She didn’t recognize me at first. “I’d like a bouquet,” I said. “For my wedding.”
Her smile brightened.
“Congratulations, dear. What kind?”
“Daisies,” I said without hesitation. As she wrapped them, I took a deep breath.
“You once let a little girl take flowers without paying,” I said softly. “They were for her mother’s grave.”
Her hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, she looked up at me.
“That was you?”
I nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. “I knew your mother,” she whispered.
“And your grandmother. They were both kind to me when I first opened this shop. Your mother used to come in every Sunday for daisies—said they reminded her of home.”
My throat tightened.
I had never known that. “She must have passed that love on to you,” the woman said gently. “And now, here you are, starting your own new chapter.”
I smiled through tears.
“You helped me more than you know. Back then, I thought I was alone. But you gave me a place to grieve… and to heal.”
She finished wrapping the bouquet, tying it with a white satin ribbon.
“No charge,” she said with a familiar wink. “For old times’ sake.”
But I reached for my wallet and placed the money on the counter. “No,” I said softly.
“This time, it’s my turn to give something back.”
She smiled, eyes glistening. “Your mother would be proud of you.”
As I walked out, sunlight spilled across the petals in my hands. I paused outside the shop, inhaling the scent of daisies, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel the ache of loss.
I felt warmth—as if my mother were there, smiling beside me. Kindness, I realized, doesn’t just heal the moment. Sometimes it takes root quietly, waiting years to bloom again—just like those daisies that had once been stolen, but were, in truth, always given with love.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental.
The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
