I always thought my grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived just to ruin my life. The morning he dumped dirt all over my roses, I had no idea he’d already planned something that would trap me forever.
I loved mornings in the suburbs—my little garden, my florist business, wedding orders keeping me afloat. But when I stepped outside that day, my roses were buried under a mountain of soil. Of course, it was Sloan. He’d spent his retirement tormenting me.
I stormed toward his house, ready to confront him, but stopped when I saw unfamiliar cars. Mrs. Pearson whispered, “Harold passed away last night. Heart attack.” My anger drained instantly. Moments later, a lawyer approached: “You’re required at the reading of his will.”
At the funeral, I sat in the back, replaying every fight. What cruel joke had he left behind? Afterward, the lawyer gathered us in a small office. Beside me sat an elderly woman in a hat, fragile and quiet.
“Linda,” the lawyer said, “you inherit Mr. Sloan’s house. The entire property.”
“What? He left me his house?”
“Under one condition: you must take in Mrs. Rose here and look after her, for as long as she wishes.”
I stared at Rose. She smiled gently. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t be a burden.”
But it was mandatory. If I refused, I forfeited the house. My rental was draining me, my roses destroyed. Sloan’s garden, full of perfect rose bushes, could save my contracts. I agreed.
At first, it seemed manageable—land for my flowers, companionship for Rose. But soon came endless requests: steamed broccoli, peeled tomato matchsticks, warm milk at midnight, migraine pills at dawn. I biked forty minutes in the dark to fetch medicine, only to find her sleeping peacefully.
Exhausted, I stumbled into Sloan’s garage and found a box of old photographs. One showed a young woman who looked exactly like me, holding a baby beside a young Sloan. On the back: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
My heart froze. Sloan had a daughter? Rose appeared in the doorway. “You look so much like me at that age,” she said softly.
That night, I confronted her. “The baby—who was she?”
Rose sighed. “She was ours. Harold and I were just kids. We thought another family could give her a better life. He spent years searching. Watching you in the garden, he knew. You were his daughter.”
She handed me a letter. My name on the envelope.
“Linda,” it read, “I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but I was never man enough. I thought you’d hate me. I hope you forgive Mom for what she couldn’t do. And maybe forgive me, too. Take care of her. Take care of yourself. Love, Dad.”
Hot tears blurred the words. All my life I’d been strong—when my parents left, when no one came back, when Sloan buried my roses. And now I learned the man who tormented me was my father, desperate to make things right.
I sat with Rose, both of us crying. “I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said. “But we can try.”
We held hands, two women bound by years of silence, finally choosing not to waste what time remained. Outside, the roses bent in the wind—but they didn’t break. And neither would we.
