I always thought my grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived just to ruin my life. But the morning he dumped dirt all over my roses, I had no idea he’d already planned something that would trap me forever.
I loved mornings. Especially out there in the suburbs. I had my little garden and the freedom to breathe the way I liked.
I was a florist: bouquet orders came through the internet and good old word of mouth. That summer, wedding requests had saved me.
The roses from my garden were in demand among brides.
I made myself a cup of coffee and sat on the porch with my notebook. I took a sip and glanced at the flower bed and nearly choked.
Instead of neat rows of rose bushes, there was a whole mountain of dark soil. Right in the middle of my flowers!
“Oh, come on! Not again! Who else could it be if not that old pest?”
I knew exactly who it was. My neighbor, Mr. Sloan.
The only downside to my peaceful life out there. The man who had dedicated his retirement years to making my life miserable.
“I’m gonna tell him everything this time. This is my work, for heaven’s sake.”
I stepped angrily over the stones at the edge of my yard and stopped. In front of Mr. Sloan’s old house were a couple of unfamiliar cars.
“What happened here?” I asked Mrs. Pearson, the woman from the next street over.
“Linda… Harold… passed away last night. Heart attack, they say.”
All the anger inside me just drained out like someone had poured it straight into the soil, right onto my crushed roses.
I turned around. A man in a suit stepped closer and held out his hand.
“James H. Mr. Sloan’s lawyer. After the funeral, we’ll be reading his last will. You’re required to be present.”
“That’s his wish. You’ll find out everything after the farewell.”
I glanced back at the pile of dirt and the dead rose bush peeking out from underneath.
I felt a chill run through me…
What did you cook up this time, Sloan?
***
The following day, I sat in the back row of the small funeral hall and couldn’t take my eyes off the coffin. I stared at Mr. Sloan and replayed every fight we’d ever had.
What did you cook up for me this time, old man?
What cruel joke did you leave behind?
After the farewell, the lawyer invited me into a small office inside the funeral home. An unfamiliar elderly woman was already sitting there. She was staring out the window, looking so… defenseless.
I sat down across from her and tried not to stare too much. The lawyer opened his folder.
“Alright. I’ve gathered you here to read Mr. Sloan’s last will. Two points concern you.”
I clenched my hands together under the table.
“Linda, you inherit Mr. Sloan’s house. The entire property.”
“What? Is this some joke? He left ME his house? Me?”
Of course. There it was. The catch.
“You must take in Mrs. Rose D., here she is,” he nodded to the woman in the hat, “into your new home. And look after her. She will live with you for as long as she wishes.”
“Excuse me… Look after her? Why?”
Rose lifted her gaze and smiled so gently. I felt a stab of guilt for even doubting her.
I turned to the lawyer.
“Is this… mandatory?”
“If you decline this condition, you automatically forfeit the house.”
Perfect. Just perfect. My rental was draining me every single month. And I’d lost all my orders along with my roses. Obviously, Mr. Sloan had made sure of that before he died.
But his yard was full of his own rose bushes, the same ones that could save my ruined wedding contracts if I played it right. That garden was a dream, whether I liked it or not. A chance to finally work in peace.
Rose smiled at me lightly. “We’ll be good company for each other, won’t we, dear?”
I nodded. After all, that’s who I was: the kind of person who helped others.
***
The first few days, I tried to convince myself that everything would be fine.
I had the land for my roses. All I had to do was take care of sweet old Rose.
Until she asked for steamed broccoli.
I was standing in the kitchen, covered in petals and dirt after planting new bushes.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re busy… But would it be too much to make me some broccoli? Don’t overcook it, please, my stomach can’t handle it…”
I sighed and went to the stove.
The next morning, Rose wanted a tomato salad. But not just any salad. The tomatoes had to be peeled, sliced into thin matchsticks.
“I know you’re the kindest girl,” she said as I peeled those damned tomatoes. “No one’s ever done something so nice for me.”
At night, I woke up to her little bell ringing. Rose wanted warm milk.
Then she needed me to check the radiators because of the wind howling through them.
An hour later, she needed her pills.
“Sweetheart, could you look at these? I think they’re expired… Would you be so kind as to go to the pharmacy for me?”
“I just need my migraine pills, I don’t know if I can bear this pain until sunrise…”
The city was forty minutes away. I took Mr. Sloan’s old bicycle and rode through the darkness anyway. I got back around seven. Rose was sleeping soundly in her bed.
“Oh, sweetheart. Sleep is the best medicine…”
“But…”
I tried to hold it together. But that day, I didn’t even go back to sleep. Minutes later, I was looking in the garage for the old watering can, but instead I found an old box. The lid was left slightly open.
I knelt down and carefully lifted it. Inside — old photographs. Black-and-white, faded. On one of them, I saw…
What? It was me! Twenty-five? No, it couldn’t be. No, no, not me.
A woman who looked so much like me that I flinched. She was holding a small baby. Next to her, young Mr. Sloan. I flipped the photo over — there was a note scribbled on the back:
“Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
I sank onto the floor, feeling a chill run down my spine.
Suddenly, I heard Rose’s voice behind me. “Oh, you found the old photos, dear? That was back when everything was… different.”
I turned around. She was standing in the garage doorway.
“The woman in this photo… Her name’s Rose… That’s you?”
“Some things never go away, even when you try not to remember them… You look so much like me at that age.”
“Not now, sweetheart. I need to take my medicine.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me with that box of photos.
What was she hiding? And who was she really to Mr. Sloan?
I’d grown up in foster care. All I knew was that my mother had left me when I was a baby. That was it.
My head was spinning.
If Mr. Sloan had a daughter, why didn’t she come to his funeral?
Why Rose? Why me?
Why did her eyes look at me like that, as if she knew something I didn’t?
I had to find out the truth. Because maybe… it was my truth, too.
***
The following rainy evening, I knocked on Rose’s door.
“Rose, we
