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 died the year before, and my father worked long hours, too tired to notice how often I slipped out. I had no money. But bringing flowers to her made me feel close to her—as if something beautiful could still connect us.

One afternoon, the shop owner caught me.

I stood there holding a few roses, my heart racing.

I expected anger. Maybe worse.