I froze. Somehow, she understood everything. I cried as I told her about my mother, about our poverty, about my Sunday walks. She didn’t scold me. She didn’t rush me. She wrapped the bouquet properly and said, “Come back on Sundays. I’ll make something for you. No charge. For your mom—and for you.”
And I did. Every week, she had flowers waiting. Sometimes she asked about school. Sometimes she just smiled. Over time, the grave didn’t feel quite as cold. Grief softened. The kindness of a stranger gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.
Years passed. I grew up. I stopped going to the shop, but I never forgot her. When it came time to plan my wedding, there was no question where I would get the flowers.
The woman behind the counter didn’t recognize me at first. I told her who I was. Tears filled her eyes. “You grew up,” she whispered.
She made my bouquet perfectly, and even added a small arrangement for my mother. On my wedding morning, I placed it at her grave. Grief was still there—but so was gratitude.
Some people sell flowers. Others give dignity, kindness, and hope. She gave me all three—and it changed everything.