When I was twelve years old, grief was something I carried quietly, like a heavy stone in my chest that no one else seemed to notice. My mother had passed away the year before, and the world had suddenly become a colder, emptier place. My father worked long hours, leaving before the sun rose and returning long after it had set, his shoulders weighed down by exhaustion and responsibility. He loved me, I knew that, but the loss of my mother had hollowed something inside him too, leaving little room for conversations about feelings or the loneliness that lingered in our quiet house.

Every afternoon after school, when the silence felt too loud and the memories too strong, I would walk down the same street toward the small cemetery at the edge of town. I felt an overwhelming need to bring my mother something beautiful, something that showed I hadn’t forgotten her. But I had no money, and asking my father felt impossible. So I began doing something I knew wasn’t right. There was a small flower shop along the way, its front windows always filled with color and life.