To Ryan, the rose plant on his windowsill wasn’t just a flower—it was sacred. It was more than soil and petals. It was his mother’s memory, living and breathing. He had mixed some of her ashes into the dirt. Every May, beautiful crimson roses bloomed, and Ryan treated them like they carried her spirit.
But then one day, everything changed.
His father—who he barely spoke to anymore—came to visit. And with one careless move, he knocked over the pot. The one holding his mother’s ashes.
Every year in May, the rose bloomed. Not in November, the month his mother Rose had died—but in May, the month she had first planted them in the backyard when Ryan was a kid. Now 26, Ryan always thought it was poetic how the rose kept blooming. It felt like a reminder that life goes on, even after death.
He leaned over the plant on his windowsill, gently pressing his finger into the soil like his mom had taught him. Not too wet. Not too dry. Just right.
A tiny new bud was growing, still green but full of promise.
“Look, Mom,” he whispered, brushing the bud with his fingertip. “Another one’s coming.”
His black cat, Salem, rubbed against his legs and purred loudly like she agreed. Ryan smiled and reached down to scratch her behind the ears.
But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He ignored it at first. But when it buzzed again, he sighed and picked it up. The name flashing on the screen made his stomach twist: Dad.
He hovered over the “Decline” button. But then he heard his mom’s voice in his head: Be kind, Ryan. So, against his better judgment, he answered.
“Hello?” he said flatly.
“Ryan? It’s your dad.”
Even after six years since Rose had passed, they still talked like strangers. His mother had always been the bridge between them. She understood how to translate Ryan’s quiet love and his father’s rough edges. But after she was gone, that bridge collapsed. Now they only spoke during holidays or when they absolutely had to.
Ryan still felt that heavy burn in his chest whenever he remembered the empty chair by her hospital bed. His dad had chosen bar stools over goodbye. Some betrayals, Ryan believed, were unforgivable.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, stiffly leaning against the window. “Everything okay?”
“Not really,” Larry replied, and his voice sounded weak. Ryan straightened. “I’m a little under the weather. Nothing serious,” he added quickly, “but the doctor says I shouldn’t be alone for a few days.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
The library where he worked was heading into finals week. He’d planned to spend his evenings working on the novel he’d been rewriting for two years. Every moment counted. But now this?
“Can’t Uncle Mike help out?”
“He’s on a fishing trip. Look, son, I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. It’s just for a few days.”
Ryan glanced at the rose pot—his quiet sacred space.
What would his mom want him to do?
He let out a breath. “Fine. But Dad, my apartment’s small. I have a routine. And boundaries. You have to respect that.”
“Of course,” Larry said, sounding truly relieved. “I’ll catch the afternoon bus and grab a taxi to your place. Thanks, Ryan.”
Ryan hung up, already regretting it. Salem jumped onto the windowsill and nudged his hand.
“Well,” he told her, “looks like we’ve got company.”
When Larry arrived, he looked older than Ryan remembered. His skin was grayer, the lines on his face deeper.
“Nice place,” Larry said, dropping his duffel bag in the tiny living room. “Cozy.”
“You’ll sleep on the pull-out couch,” Ryan said, avoiding eye contact. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Kitchen’s there. I work till six.”
“Still at the library?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Larry cleared his throat. “How’s the writing going?”
Ryan was surprised. “It’s… going.”
“Your mom always said you had talent,” Larry said gently.
Ryan’s heart squeezed. He didn’t reply.
“There’s soup in the fridge,” he said instead, heading to his bedroom. “I have to feed Salem.”
He escaped, shutting the door behind him. Salem curled up on his bed. The rose plant glowed softly in the evening light. Ryan ran his fingers over a leaf.
“Just a few days,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Mom.”
But his father didn’t seem very sick.
The next night, Ryan came home to find groceries on the counter and Larry cooking dinner.
“You didn’t have anything but microwave meals, son!” Larry said cheerfully.
The day after that, Larry went to see a movie. Then, on the third day, Ryan found a note:
“Gone to catch the sunset at the beach. Back by 7. Sorry! :)”
Ryan crumpled the note in his fist. A sunset? He’d rearranged his life for this?
When Larry came back, cheerful and sun-kissed, Ryan snapped.
“You’re not sick, are you?” he demanded.
Larry’s smile faded. “I… may have exaggerated.”
Ryan’s voice rose. “Why would you lie to me?”
Larry sank onto the couch. “Because you wouldn’t have said yes otherwise. I wanted to see you, spend time together… and have a few good days in the city.”
“So you lied instead of asking like a normal person?” Ryan scoffed. “You could’ve just said you wanted to visit.”
“Would you have said yes?”
Ryan said nothing. That was answer enough.
Then something inside him cracked.
“You want honesty? Fine. I was there—dragging Mom to appointments, holding her hair while she threw up, lying to her face saying everything would be okay. And you?” His voice shook. “You were off drinking and gambling like nothing was happening.”
He took a breath, eyes shining.
“She kept asking for you. Even when she could barely breathe.”
Larry looked stunned.
“I’m lonely, Ryan,” he finally said, voice low. “The house is quiet. People still call me ‘Rose’s husband.’ Sometimes I just want to get away from it all.”
Ryan stared at him. For a second, he felt a flicker of pity. But then he remembered the lie.
“You should’ve been honest. I’m going to bed. Leave tomorrow.”
“Ryan—”
“Good night, Dad.”
The next morning, Ryan left early for his late shift at the library. He was still angry. All day, he felt off. He snapped at students, shelved books in the wrong sections. By the time he got home, he was exhausted and bitter.
Maybe his dad was already gone.
But when he opened the door, he heard movement.
“Dad?” he called.
“In here,” came the quiet reply.
Ryan walked into his room and froze.
His father stood with a broom, sweeping up shards of terra cotta.
In the trash can—among tissues and wrappers—were broken stems and bits of rose leaves.
“No,” Ryan whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Larry said, his face pale. “I was trying to open the window. It felt stuffy, and I accidentally hit the pot. I cleaned up—”
Ryan shoved him aside, trembling. He dug through the trash, pulling out broken roots, soil, petals. His heart dropped.
This was the soil that held his mother’s ashes.
“You don’t even understand what you’ve done,” he whispered, horrified.
Larry looked confused. “It’s just a plant. We can get another—”
“IT HAD MOM’S ASHES IN IT!”
Larry staggered back, eyes wide. “What?! Ryan, I didn’t know—”
“Exactly! You never ask. You never notice. That plant was all I had left. You threw it in the trash!”
“I loved your mother—”
“Then where were you? When she cried for you? When she was dying and I was the only one there holding her hand?”
Tears ran down Ryan’s face as he cradled the broken stems. “Get out. I want you gone. Now.”
Larry stood still, then nodded. “I’ll pack.”
Ryan didn’t watch him leave.
Instead, he dug through the trash, saving as much soil as he could. He found a small pot in his cupboard and replanted the broken stems, even though he knew they probably wouldn’t survive.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “I should’ve protected this… protected you.”
Three years later.
Ryan finished his novel. It was about loss, forgiveness, and the strange way families stay connected—even in death. A small publisher picked it up. Not enough to quit his job at the library, but it was a start.
He moved to a bigger apartment with a real balcony. He planted a small garden. The original rose had died, but he mixed the last bits of soil with fresh earth and planted new roses. They weren’t the same—but they were beautiful.
Every May, they bloomed.
One Tuesday evening, Ryan got a call.
It was Uncle Mike. “Ryan,” he said gently. “Your dad had a heart attack. He didn’t make it.”
The funeral was Saturday.
Ryan stared at the dark suit hanging in his closet. His phone buzzed with texts from family. He ignored them.
Instead, he opened his laptop and began to write:
Dear Dad,
I’m not at your funeral today. I should be, but I’m not. Maybe that makes me a bad son. But I think we both know I learned how to be absent… from you.I’ve been angry for so long. But today I realized something. You didn’t just break Mom’s rose pot—you broke the wall I built around her memory.
She’s not in the soil. She’s in how I organize my books. In the flowers I keep fresh on the table. In my love for thunderstorms and chocolate for breakfast.
And… she’s in you, too. In your laugh. In your hands.
I didn’t come today because I’m still learning to forgive. But I am trying, Dad.
Your son, Ryan.
He cried as he typed. Outside, it began to rain gently.
He called Uncle Mike. “I can’t make it today,” he said. “But I want to visit soon. I want to see where he’s buried.”
Then he stepped onto his balcony. A fresh rose plant sat on the windowsill—a new home for what remained of his mother’s ashes. Next to it, he placed a framed photo of his parents on their wedding day—young, smiling, full of hope.
He looked at the roses, touched a petal, and whispered to the rain:
“I’m working on it, Mom. I’m working on it.”
