“Daisies,” I answered immediately.

As she wrapped them, I spoke softly.

“You once let a little girl take flowers without paying. They were for her mother’s grave.”

Her hands stopped.

She looked up slowly.

“That was you?”

I nodded.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I knew your mother,” she said quietly. “And your grandmother too. They were kind to me when I first opened this shop.”

She gently touched the daisies.

“Your mother came every Sunday. She always chose daisies—said they reminded her of home.”

My throat tightened.

I had never known that.

“She must have passed that love to you,” she said. “And now… you’re starting your own life.”

She finished the bouquet, tying it with a white ribbon.

“No charge,” she said with a soft smile. “For old times.”

But this time, I placed money on the counter.

“No,” I said gently. “Now it’s my turn.”

She smiled warmly.

“Your mother would be proud.”

Outside, sunlight fell across the daisies in my hands.

I paused, breathing in their soft scent.

For the first time in years, the pain felt lighter.

Instead, there was warmth—like my mother was still with me.

And I understood something.

Kindness doesn’t just heal in the moment.

Sometimes, it quietly grows… waiting years to bloom again.

Just like those daisies I once thought I had taken—

but were always given with love.

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