I always thought my irritable old neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived just to destroy my life. But the morning he dumped dirt all over my roses, I had no idea he’d already prepared something that would trap me forever.
I worked as a florist, taking floral orders over the internet and word of mouth. That summer, wedding requests saved me.
My garden’s roses were in high demand among brides.
I brewed myself a cup of coffee and sat on the porch with my notebook. I took a sip, looked at the flower garden, and almost choked.
What the hell…
Instead of orderly rows of rose bushes, there was a massive pile of dark earth. Right in the center of my flowers!
Oh, come on! Not again! Who else could it be but the old pest?”
I knew who it was. My neighbor, Mr. Sloan.
The one drawback to my idyllic existence out there. The man who used his retirement years to make my life miserable.
“I will tell him everything this time. This is my job, for heaven’s sake.”
I stepped fiercely across the stones at the edge of my yard before stopping. Two unknown cars were parked in front of Mr. Sloan’s former house.
“What happened here?” I asked Mrs. Pearson, the woman from the next block.
“Linda and Harold passed away last night.” They claim it’s a heart attack.
All of my rage suddenly drained out, as if someone had poured it directly into the soil, right upon my smashed flowers.
“Miss M.?”
I turned around. A man in a suit moved closer and extended his hand.
“James H. Mr. Sloan’s lawyer. After the funeral, we’ll be reading his last will. You’re required to be present.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
“That’s his wish. You’ll find out everything after the farewell.”
I returned my gaze to the pile of dirt, noticing the d3ad rose bush peeping out from beneath.
I felt a cold run through my body…
Sloan, what have you cooked up this time?
***
The following day, I sat in the back row of the little burial hall, staring at the casket. I glanced at Mr. Sloan, replaying every fight we had ever had.
What have you cooked up for me this time, old man?
What nasty joke have you left behind?
Following the farewell, the lawyer invited me to a small office inside the funeral home. An unfamiliar older woman was already seated there. She was staring out the window, seemingly defenseless.
I sat down across from her and tried not to stare too much. The lawyer opened his folder.
“Alright. I’ve collected you here to read Mr. Sloan’s last will. Two points concern you.”
I clasped my hands together beneath the table.
“Linda, you inherit Mr. Sloan’s house. The entire property.”
“What? Is this some joke? He left ME his house? Me?”
“Under one condition.”
Of course. There it was. The catch.
“You must take in Mrs. Rose D., here she is,” he said, nodding to the woman with the hat. And watch after her. She will live with you as long as she wants.”
Excuse me… Look after her? Why?”
Rose lifted her gaze and smiled softly. I felt guilty for even doubting her.
“Do not worry, sweetheart. I will not be a burden for you.”
I turned to the lawyer.
“Is this… mandatory?”
“If you decline this condition, you automatically forfeit the house.”
Perfect. Just perfect. My rental was draining me every single month. And I’d lost all my orders along with my roses. Obviously, Mr. Sloan had made sure of that before he passed away.
But his yard was filled with his own rose bushes, the identical ones that, if played correctly, may rescue my wrecked wedding contracts. That garden was a dream, whether I liked it or not. A chance to finally work peacefully.
Rose smiled lightly at me. “We’ll be good company for each other, won’t we, dear?”
I nodded. After all, I was the type of person who helped others.
What harm could a nice old lady possibly cause?
***
The first few days, I tried to persuade myself that everything would be fine.
I had the land for my roses. All I had to do was look after sweet old Rose.
Nothing too hard, right? Right.
Until she asked for steamed broccoli.
I was standing in the kitchen, covered in petals and dirt after planting new bushes.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re busy… But would it be too much to make me some broccoli? Don’t overcook it, please, my stomach can’t control it…”
I sighed and went to the stove.
The next morning, Rose wanted a tomato salad. But not just any salad.
“I know you’re the kindest girl,” she said.
“No one’s ever done something so nice for me.”
At night, I woke up to her little bell ringing. Rose wanted warm milk.
An hour later, she needed her pills.
“Sweetheart, could you look at these? I think they’re expired… Would you be so kind as to go to the pharmacy for me?”
“But it’s five in the morning…”
“I just need my migraine pills, I don’t know if I can endure this pain until morning…”
The city was forty minutes away. I took Mr. Sloan’s old bicycle and rode through the darkness anyway.
“Rose, wake up… I brought the pills…”
“Oh, sweetheart. Sleep is the best medicine…”
“But…”
“Shhh. You’ll frighten off my healing.”
I tried to hold it together. But that day, I didn’t even go back to sleep.
What? It was me! Twenty-five? No, it couldn’t be. No, no, not me.
A woman who looked so much like me that I flinched. She was holding a small baby. Next to her, young Mr. Sloan.
“Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
My girl? Mr. Sloan had a daughter?
Suddenly, I heard Rose’s voice behind me.
“Oh, you found the old photos, dear? That was back when everything was… changed.”
I turned around. She was standing in the garage doorway.
“The woman in this photo… Her name’s Rose… That’s you?”
“Some things never go away, even when you try not to remember them… You look so much like me at that age.”
“Like you, Rose?”
“Not now, sweetheart. I need to take my medicine.”
She turned and departed, leaving me with that box of photos.
What was she hiding? And who was she really to Mr. Sloan?
My head was spinning.
If Mr. Sloan had a daughter, why didn’t she come to his funeral?
Why Rose? Why me?
Why did her eyes look at me like that, as if she understand something I didn’t?
I had to explore the truth. Because maybe… it was my truth, too.
***
The following rainy evening, I rapped on Rose’s door.
“Rose, we need to talk. That photo… the baby. Who was she?”
“Sit, sweetheart. I suppose you’re ready for some of it now.”
I could hear the rain drumming on the old roof. Rose gazed into her lap, collecting the words like broken beads.
“We were just kids ourselves, Harold and I. Wild, stupid kids. We thought we could make it work. But life… doesn’t care about love when there’s nothing else to hold you together.”
“So the baby… she was yours? Yours and Sloan’s?”
Rose explored, and for a heartbeat, I saw her young — that same softness in the eyes as the woman in the photo.
“She was born in August. 1985. It was such a hot summer. We were living out of his mother’s house back then. No money. No work. Just dreams. We really thought we could raise our daughter right.”
“And you gave her up?”
“We thought a better family could give her what we never could.”
“Mr. Sloan found her, didn’t he?”
“It took him years. He said it was the one thing he had to get right before he passed away. That’s why he moved here. He used to stand by the window, watching you work in the garden. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was stubborn. Proud. He thought you’d spit in his face for what he did.”
“And you? Why did he leave YOU to me?”
“My body’s failing me. Harold thought… maybe… You and I could still have something. He wrote you a letter. I was supposed to wait until you were ready.”
She pulled a small envelope from her knitting basket.
“So that baby… the girl in the photo… Was that me?”
“You’ve always been my girl.”
I opened the envelope with trembling hands.
“Linda,
I deserve every bitter word you could throw at me. I wanted to tell you the truth a thousand times, but I was never man enough to stand there and see the hate in your eyes.
I told myself I was protecting you, just like when I let you go. I thought you’d have a better life without me.
Watching you — your roses, your strength, that fire in you — it was the only good thing I did at the end.
I hope one day you forgive Mom for all she couldn’t do. And maybe, you’ll find a way to forgive me, too.
Take care of Mom. Take care of yourself. No more secrets now.
Love, Dad”
Hot tears fell on the paper. I couldn’t recall the last time I let myself weep. All my life, I tried to be strong. I was strong when my parents departed.
I remained strong even when no one returned for me.
When Mr. Sloan threw dirt on my blooms, I stood strong.
My father is punishing me for being his ghost.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, hugging my knees. The thunderstorm has passed. I eventually took Rose’s hand. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying too.
“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” I muttered.
“I know.”
“But I want to try. I want us both to try.”
“We’ve wasted so many years.”
“Then we won’t waste what we have left.”
We sat there, two women who had been too hard on the world and ourselves, feeling as if we no longer had to battle alone.
Outside, the flowers bent in the breeze. But they did not break.
And neither would we.
