I never imagined a simple rose plant could carry so much meaning—but it became the heart of a love story I’ll never forget.
Before my mom passed away, she took my dad’s hand and whispered one last wish: “Take care of my roses, will you?” It was just a small bush in a chipped clay pot, the kind you’d barely notice in a garden store. But to her, it was everything—her first plant, her little symbol of patience and hope.
After she was gone, my dad kept his promise. He treated that rose like it was a living memory of her. Every morning before breakfast, he’d step outside with his coffee, check the soil, trim the leaves, and gently move the pot to where the sunlight touched it best.
When we moved to a new house, he made sure the rose had its own seat in the car, secured like something fragile and irreplaceable.
One morning, I found him sitting quietly by the porch, wiping dirt from the pot. His hands froze mid-motion, and his expression softened. “Come here,” he said in a trembling voice.
On the side of the pot, barely visible beneath the years of soil and moss, were two faintly carved letters—M + L.
They were his and my mom’s initials.
He stared at them for the longest time, his thumb tracing the old marks. “We must’ve done this when we first started dating,” he murmured. He had completely forgotten, and yet she had kept that same pot—through moves, seasons, and decades—never saying a word.
My dad cried quietly that morning, not out of grief but out of gratitude. He thought he had been keeping her plant alive all these years, but really, he had been nurturing their love—still blooming, still rooted, still alive.
Now, whenever I see that rose, I’m reminded that love doesn’t always shout or sparkle. Sometimes it lingers in the soil, in the scratches on a clay pot, or in the quiet care of someone who keeps a promise long after goodbye.