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.
