I always believed my neighbor lived just to make my life miserable. He was harsh and always scowling. Every slammed gate, every complaint about my fence, every bit of weed killer near my roses felt deliberate.
One morning, I found a huge pile of dirt dumped over my rose bed. I was furious. But when I went to confront him, I learned he had died of a heart attack the night before.
At the funeral, his lawyer revealed something shocking: he had left me his house and land. The only condition was that I take care of an elderly woman, Rose Dalton, who would live with me.
I agreed because the land could save my florist business. But living with her wasn’t easy. Endless requests, sleepless nights, constant exhaustion.
One day, I found old photographs in the garage. In one, a young Rose held a baby. On the back it read: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
I had grown up in foster care. I had never known my mother.
That night, the truth came out. Rose was my mother. Harold was my father. They had given me up because of poverty and fear. He had watched me grow from across the fence for years, too ashamed to approach me.
In a letter, he wrote that he never had the courage to be my father, but watching me grow gave him peace.
I realized my anger had been hidden grief.
In spring, Rose and I rebuilt the garden together. The roses grew again.
We didn’t break.
We grew.