I was twelve the first time I stole something. It wasn’t for rebellion—it was for my mother, who had died less than a year before. I wanted to bring her beauty, something bright and alive, to her grave.
Every Sunday, I walked alone to the cemetery, whispering to her about school, about my father, about being brave when I wasn’t. I brought wildflowers from the roadside, but they always felt inadequate.
One day, I passed a flower shop. Its windows burst with color. I knew we couldn’t afford it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I slipped inside and grabbed a small bouquet. My heart pounded as I turned to leave—and then a gentle voice stopped me.
“She deserves better,” said the woman behind the counter.
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