I was only twelve when I stole those flowers—hands shaking, heart pounding, desperate to leave something beautiful at my mother’s grave. We barely had money for food then, and grief felt crueler when all I could offer were wilted wildflowers from the roadside. I thought no one noticed the small bouquet I slipped from the corner of the shop, but the owner gently stopped me. Instead of anger, she offered compassion. She looked at the flowers in my trembling hands and simply whispered, “She deserves better.” In that moment, she gave me what I didn’t even know I needed: understanding. From that day on, she let me choose a bouquet every Sunday, no questions asked, telling me both my mother—and I—deserved love.

A decade later, healed but forever changed, I returned to her shop to order my wedding flowers. She didn’t recognize me until I thanked her for the kindness that carried me through childhood. Her eyes filled with tears as she held my hands, whispering, “You grew up.” Not only did she create my bouquet, but she also wrapped a small arrangement for my mother—one final gift echoing all those Sundays. The next morning, I laid it at my mom’s grave, this time freely given, overflowing with gratitude. Some people hand you flowers. Others hand you hope.