Every birthday since age five, my son planted a white lily for the twin sister who died at birth. On his 15th birthday, Logan ran outside screaming. Every flower had been cut down. In the middle of Lily’s garden sat a black box with his name on it. Then I read the note taped to the lid and froze.
The evening before Logan turned 15, I found him outside with the garden hose looped around his bare feet.
Every birthday since age five, my son planted a white lily for the twin sister who died at birth.
“You’re drowning them,” I called from the porch.
Logan glanced over his shoulder. “I’m watering them.”
“There’s a difference.”
“According to you, Mom.”
“According to plants.”
He grinned and aimed the hose lower.
“You’re drowning them.”
There were ten white lilies growing beside our porch by then, one for every birthday since Logan had been old enough to ask for them.
The first had gone into the ground when he was five.
“Mom, if Lily can’t have birthdays with us, can we grow her flowers instead?”
There were ten white lilies growing beside our porch by then.
I had cried in the bathroom afterward where he couldn’t see me.
Since then, every June, Logan added another bulb to the little patch he called Lily’s Garden.
He guarded those flowers like they were sacred.
Neighborhood kids could kick soccer balls across our lawn.
Since then, every June, Logan added another bulb to the little patch he called Lily’s Garden.
Birds could dig in the mulch.
But touch one of Lily’s flowers and Logan became a security system with legs.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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