Ruby’s voice trembled too. “He brought pictures of you. He’d show us photos and say, ‘This is my Mollie. These flowers need to be worthy of her.’”
Grandma walked forward like she was in a trance, her hands hovering over the blooms as if she feared they might vanish if she touched them. She stopped in front of a patch of roses—the same kind Grandpa always brought on their anniversary.
And then she dropped to her knees.
She sobbed like something inside her finally broke loose.
“He’s still giving me flowers,” she cried. “Even now. Even when I thought it was done. Even when I doubted him.”
“It’s not done,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. “It’s right here.”
Ruby quietly handed Grandma another envelope.
“He wrote this just days before he passed,” she said. “He wanted me to give it to you here.”
Grandma opened it with trembling hands. I read over her shoulder as her breath caught.
“My dearest Mollie,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. But I didn’t want to leave you with only silence. This garden was for you—just like the flowers always were.
Every bloom in this garden is a Saturday morning. Every petal is a promise I kept.
I hope when you miss me, you’ll come here and know I loved you until my last breath. And beyond.
The roses are for our anniversary. The tulips are for spring, your favorite season. The wildflowers are for all those roadside bouquets.
I’ll be waiting for you, my love. At every sunrise. In every flower that blooms.
Yours always, Thomas.”
Grandma clutched the letter to her chest and cried into it like it was his shirt, like it could still hold his warmth.
“I’m so sorry I doubted you,” she whispered toward the sky.
Ruby wiped her own eyes. “He talked about you constantly,” she said. “Every time he came here. He said you were the best decision he ever made.”
Grandma smiled through tears. “He was mine too.”
We’ve gone back to the cottage three times since that first day. And starting this Saturday, we’ll go every week.
We bring tea. Folding chairs. Sometimes a book. Grandma waters the roses. I sit among the tulips and write letters to Grandpa in a journal, because grief feels lighter when you give it somewhere to rest.
Yesterday, Grandma picked a small bouquet of wildflowers and brought them home. She placed them in the vase on the kitchen table, like the ritual never truly ended.
“He’s still here,” she said softly, smiling through tears. “In every petal.”
And she was right.
Some flowers fade. Some endure. And some—like Grandpa’s love—find a way to keep blooming.