At 12, grieving my mother, I stole flowers from a shop for her grave. We were poor; wildflowers weren’t enough. The owner caught me but didn’t scold. “She deserves better,” she said, understanding instantly. She let me pick a free bouquet every Sunday. “She deserves love, and so do you.” It became my ritual through tough years.
A decade later, healed and about to marry, I returned to her renovated shop. She didn’t recognize me until I thanked her. Tears filled her eyes. “You grew up,” she whispered. “You kept your promise to life.”
She made my wedding bouquet and a small one for Mom. We placed it at the grave the next day—not stolen, but given with gratitude. Some give flowers; she gave hope. Both changed me forever.
