I never thought a simple rose plant could mean so much—but it became the center of a love story I’ll always remember.
Before my mom died, she held my dad’s hand and made one last request: “Please take care of my roses.” It was just a small plant in a cracked pot, something easy to overlook. But to her, it meant everything—it was her first plant and a symbol of her patience and hope.
After she passed away, my dad stayed true to his promise. He cared for that rose as if it were a part of her. Every morning before breakfast, he’d go outside with his coffee, check the soil, trim the leaves, and move the pot so it could get the best sunlight.
When we moved to a new house, he even gave the rose its own seat in the car, making sure it was safe like something precious that couldn’t be replaced.
One morning, I saw him sitting quietly on the porch, cleaning the dirt off the pot. He suddenly stopped moving, and his face softened. In a shaky voice, he said, “Come here.”
On the side of the pot, almost hidden under dirt and moss, were two faint letters—M + L.
They were my dad’s and mom’s initials.
He stared at them for a long time, gently touching the marks. “We probably did this when we first started dating,” he said softly. He had totally forgotten about it, but she had kept that same pot through all the years, moves, and seasons—without ever mentioning it.
That morning, my dad cried softly—not because he was sad, but because he was thankful. He realized that all this time, he wasn’t just keeping her plant alive; he was keeping their love alive—still growing, still strong, still there.
Now, every time I see that rose, I remember that love doesn’t always need to be loud or fancy. Sometimes it lives quietly—in the soil, in the marks on an old pot, or in the gentle care of someone who keeps a promise even after goodbye.