I always believed my cranky old neighbor, Mr. Sloan, existed just to make my life miserable. But when he spread dirt on my roses one morning, I didn’t know he had already set up something that would change my life for good.
I really enjoyed mornings, especially in the peaceful suburbs. I had my small garden and the freedom to enjoy the air the way I wanted.
I worked as a florist, and most of my orders came online or from word of mouth. That summer, wedding orders really helped me out.
Brides loved the roses from my garden.
I made myself a cup of coffee and sat on the porch with my notebook. After taking a sip, I looked at my flower bed and almost choked.
What the heck…?
Instead of my neatly arranged rose bushes, there was a huge pile of dark soil right in the middle of my flowers!
“Oh, not again! Who else could it be but that old troublemaker?”
I knew exactly who it was—Mr. Sloan, my neighbor.
He was the only downside to my peaceful life, always making things hard for me during his retirement.
“I’m telling him everything this time. This is my work, for crying out loud.”
I stomped across the stones at the edge of my yard and stopped. There were a few cars I didn’t recognize in front of Mr. Sloan’s house.
“What’s going on here?” I asked Mrs. Pearson, who lived on the next street.
“Linda… Harold… he passed away last night. They say it was a heart attack.”
All the anger inside me just vanished, like someone poured it right into the ground, along with the dirt on my ruined roses.
“Miss M.?”
I turned around and saw a man in a suit walking toward me, holding out his hand.
“James H., Mr. Sloan’s lawyer. After the funeral, we’ll read his will. You need to be there.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
“That’s his wish. You’ll find out everything after the service.”
I glanced back at the dirt pile and the dead rose bush barely visible underneath.
A shiver ran down my spine…
What did you do this time, Sloan?
The next day, I sat in the back row of the small funeral hall, unable to look away from the coffin. I kept thinking about all the arguments we’d had.
What’s the surprise now, old man?
What twisted joke did you leave behind?
After the service, the lawyer asked me to join him in a small office in the funeral home. There was an unfamiliar elderly woman sitting there, staring out the window, looking so… vulnerable.
I sat down across from her, trying not to stare. The lawyer opened his folder.
“Alright. I’ve gathered you here to read Mr. Sloan’s will. There are two things that concern you.”
I gripped my hands together under the table.
“Linda, you inherit Mr. Sloan’s house. The whole property.”
“What? Is this some kind of joke? He left ME his house? Me?”
“Under one condition.”
Of course, there had to be a catch.
“You have to take in Mrs. Rose D.,” he said, nodding toward the woman in the hat. “She will live with you and you must look after her for as long as she wants.”
“Excuse me… Look after her? Why?”
Rose looked up and smiled kindly. I immediately felt bad for even questioning her.
“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t be a burden to you.”
I looked at the lawyer.
“Is this… mandatory?”
“If you refuse the condition, you’ll lose the house.”
Great. Just great. My rental was eating up all my money, and I’d lost all my orders along with my roses. Clearly, Mr. Sloan had made sure of that before he passed.
But his yard was full of rose bushes, the same kind that could save my ruined wedding business if I played my cards right. That garden was a dream, whether I liked it or not. It was my chance to finally work without stress.
Rose smiled at me softly. “We’ll be good company for each other, won’t we, dear?”
I nodded. After all, I was the kind of person who helped others.
What harm could one sweet old lady do?
The first few days, I tried to convince myself everything would be okay.
I had the land for my roses. All I had to do was take care of sweet old Rose.
Nothing too hard, right? Right.
Until she asked for steamed broccoli.
I was in the kitchen, covered in petals and dirt after planting new bushes.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re busy… But could you please make me some broccoli? Don’t cook it too much, my stomach can’t handle it…”
I sighed and went to the stove.
The next morning, Rose asked for a tomato salad. But not just any salad. The tomatoes had to be peeled and sliced into thin matchsticks.
“I know you’re the kindest girl,” she said as I peeled those tomatoes. “No one’s ever done something so nice for me.”
Later that night, I woke up to the sound of her little bell. Rose wanted warm milk.
Then she needed me to check the radiators because the wind was howling through them.
An hour later, she needed her pills.
“Sweetheart, could you look at these? I think they’re expired… Would you be so kind as to go to the pharmacy for me?”
“But it’s five in the morning…”
“I just need my migraine pills. I don’t know if I can handle this pain until morning…”
The city was forty minutes away. I took Mr. Sloan’s old bike and rode through the dark to get them. I came back around seven. Rose was still sleeping peacefully.
“Rose, wake up… I brought the pills…”
“Oh, sweetheart. Sleep is the best medicine…”
“But…”
“Shhh. You’ll scare away my healing.”
I tried to stay calm, but I couldn’t go back to sleep that day. Soon, I was in the garage looking for the old watering can, but instead, I found an old box with the lid slightly open.
I knelt down and carefully lifted it. Inside were old, faded black-and-white photos. One of them caught my eye…
What? It was me! Twenty-five? No, it couldn’t be. No, no, not me.
A woman who looked so much like me that I froze. She was holding a baby, with young Mr. Sloan standing next to her. I flipped the photo over and saw a note written on the back:
“Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
I sat down on the floor, feeling a cold shiver run through me.
Mr. Sloan had a daughter?
Suddenly, I heard Rose’s voice behind me. “Oh, you found the old photos, dear? That was back when everything was… different.”
I turned around. She was standing in the doorway of the garage.
“The woman in this photo… Her name’s Rose… Is that you?”
“Some things never really go away, even when you try to forget them… You look so much like I did at your age.”
“Like you, Rose?”
“Not now, sweetheart. I need to take my medicine.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the box of photos.
What was she hiding? And what was her real connection to Mr. Sloan?
I grew up in foster care. All I knew was that my mom left me when I was a baby. That was it.
My mind was racing.
If Mr. Sloan had a daughter, why didn’t she come to his funeral?
Why Rose? Why me?
Why did she look at me like she knew something I didn’t?
I needed to find out the truth. Because maybe… it was my truth, too.
The next rainy evening, I knocked on Rose’s door.
“Rose, we need to talk. That photo… the baby. Who was she?”
Rose patted the chair across from her. “Sit, sweetheart. I guess you’re ready to hear some of it now.”
I could hear the rain hitting the roof as Rose stared down at her lap, trying to find the right words, like they were broken beads.
“We were just kids back then, Harold and I. Wild, foolish kids. We thought we could make it work. But life… doesn’t care about love when there’s nothing else to keep you together.”
“So the baby… she was yours? Yours and Mr. Sloan’s?”
Rose looked up, and for a moment, I saw her as a young woman again — the same softness in her eyes as the one in the photo.
“She was born in August, 1985. It was such a hot summer. We were living in his mom’s house back then. No money, no jobs, just dreams. We really thought we could raise our daughter the right way.”
“And you gave her up?”
“We thought a better family could give her what we couldn’t.”
The room felt smaller, the air heavier.
“Mr. Sloan looked for her, didn’t he?”
“It took him years. He said it was the one thing he had to get right before he died. That’s why he moved here. He used to stand by the window and watch you work in the garden. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was stubborn. Proud. He thought you’d hate him for what he did.”
“And you? Why did he leave YOU to me?”
Rose gave a small, sad laugh. “My body’s failing. Harold thought… maybe… You and I could still have something. He wrote you a letter. I was supposed to wait until you were ready.”
She pulled out a small envelope from her knitting basket. My name was written on it. I held it in my lap like it was burning me. There was a truth inside me, buzzing and begging to be said, but I couldn’t speak.
“Linda,
I know I deserve everything bad you want to say to me. I wanted to tell you the truth so many times, but I couldn’t face the anger in your eyes.
I convinced myself I was protecting you, like when I let you go. I thought your life would be better without me.
Seeing you, your strength, your roses, that fire in you – that was the only good thing I did in the end.
I hope one day you can forgive Mom for not being able to do more, and maybe, someday, you’ll find a way to forgive me too.
Take care of Mom. Take care of yourself. No more secrets now.
Love, Dad”
Tears fell on the letter. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. I spent my whole life trying to be strong. Strong when my parents left. Strong when no one came back for me. Strong when Mr. Sloan ruined my roses…
My father, my own father, punishing me by disappearing from my life.
I don’t know how long I sat there, hugging my knees. The storm had passed. Finally, I took Rose’s hand. Her eyes were swollen like she’d been crying too.
“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“But I want to try. I want both of us to try.”
“Then we won’t waste the time we have left.”
We sat together, two women who had been tough on the world and on ourselves, finally feeling like we didn’t have to fight alone anymore.
Outside, the roses bent in the wind but didn’t snap.
And neither would we.