“But Anna is my daughter.
You don’t get to take that from me too.”
Then I walked away without waiting for the silence to feel like an answer.
The next Sunday, Anna came over for breakfast.
She brought white roses, lilies, and lavender from the same flower shop I had visited for ten years.
When I opened the door, she held them up awkwardly.
“I know this might be weird.”
I looked at the bouquet.
“No cream ribbon?”
“Too dramatic.”
I laughed.
A real laugh this time.
We put the flowers in Evelyn’s old vase and carried them into the kitchen.
Anna trimmed the stems while I made coffee.
At one point she held up a white rose and asked, “Too long?”
I looked at my daughter standing in the morning light, waiting for an answer that no longer frightened either of us.
“Just right,” I said.
And for the first Sunday in ten years, the flowers stayed with the living.
