“And your grandmother. They were both kind to me when I first opened this shop. Your mother used to come in every Sunday for daisies—said they reminded her of home.”
My throat tightened.
I had never known that. “She must have passed that love on to you,” the woman said gently. “And now, here you are, starting your own new chapter.”
I smiled through tears.
“You helped me more than you know. Back then, I thought I was alone. But you gave me a place to grieve… and to heal.”
She finished wrapping the bouquet, tying it with a white satin ribbon.
“No charge,” she said with a familiar wink. “For old times’ sake.”
But I reached for my wallet and placed the money on the counter. “No,” I said softly.
“This time, it’s my turn to give something back.”
She smiled, eyes glistening. “Your mother would be proud of you.”
As I walked out, sunlight spilled across the petals in my hands. I paused outside the shop, inhaling the scent of daisies, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel the ache of loss.
I felt warmth—as if my mother were there, smiling beside me. Kindness, I realized, doesn’t just heal the moment. Sometimes it takes root quietly, waiting years to bloom again—just like those daisies that had once been stolen, but were, in truth, always given with love.
