Ryan cherished the rose pot on his windowsill, mixed with his mother Rose’s ashes, blooming crimson each May. His estranged father, Larry, accidentally shattered it while visiting, unaware of its sacred soil. Years of tension followed Rose’s death, with Larry absent during her illness, deepening Ryan’s resentment. The broken pot symbolized their fractured bond. After Larry’s
death three years later, Ryan, now a published author, reflected on their rift. Writing a letter he never sent, he acknowledged his mother’s presence in daily joys and his father’s shared traits, beginning to forgive. At his balcony garden, he planted new roses with salvaged ashes, placing a wedding photo of his parents beside them. Rain fell as he whispered to Rose, “I’m working on it.” Though he missed Larry’s funeral, he planned to visit the grave, signaling a step toward healing, guided by the roses’ enduring cycle and his mother’s memory.
