I said yes.
At first, I thought it manageable. Rose was gentle, polite… until her needs became exacting, endless. Midnight tea. 2 a.m. glasses lost, pills expired. Foggy bike rides to pharmacies. My patience frayed.
Then, in the garage, I found a box of old photos. One stopped me cold: a young woman holding a baby—her face, mine.
“You found them,” Rose said quietly. “That’s me. That’s you.”
The truth unfolded that night. I’d grown up in foster care, nameless and alone. Harold hadn’t hated me—he’d hated himself for not being brave enough to be my father. Rose, my mother, had watched me grow from afar.
I cried until I couldn’t breathe. All the anger I carried had been grief in disguise.
Spring came. Rose and I rebuilt the garden together. New roses beside the old ones. Stories shared. Patience, forgiveness, and love grew alongside them.
For the first time, I understood belonging. Not all wounds vanish, but they can bloom.
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