Rose patted the chair across from her. “Sit, sweetheart. I suppose you’re ready for some of it now.”
I could hear the rain drumming on the old roof. Rose stared into her lap, gathering the words like broken beads.
“We were just kids ourselves, Harold and I. Wild, stupid kids. We thought we could make it work. But life… doesn’t care about love when there’s nothing else to hold you together.”
Rose looked up, and for a heartbeat, I saw her young — that same softness in the eyes as the woman in the photo.
“She was born in August. 1985. It was such a hot summer. We were living out of his mother’s house back then. No money. No work. Just dreams. We really thought we could raise our daughter right.”
“We thought a better family could give her what we never could.”
The room seemed smaller, the air thick.
“It took him years. He said it was the one thing he had to get right before he died. That’s why he moved here. He used to stand by the window, watching you work in the garden. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was stubborn. Proud. He thought you’d spit in his face for what he did.”
Rose gave a sad little laugh. “My body’s failing me. Harold thought… maybe… You and I could still have something. He wrote you a letter. I was supposed to wait until you were ready.”
She pulled a small envelope from her knitting basket. My name on it. I held it in my lap like a hot coal. A truth was buzzing in my bones, begging to be said aloud, but my mouth couldn’t move.
Rose reached for my hand, curling her paper-thin fingers over mine.
“You’ve always been my girl.”
I opened the envelope with trembling hands.
“Linda,
I deserve every bitter word you could throw at me. I wanted to tell you the truth a thousand times, but I was never man enough to stand there and see the hate in your eyes.
I told myself I was protecting you, just like when I let you go. I thought you’d have a better life without me.
Watching you — your roses, your strength, that fire in you — it was the only good thing I did at the end.
I hope one day you forgive Mom for all she couldn’t do. And maybe, you’ll find a way to forgive me, too.
Take care of Mom. Take care of yourself. No more secrets now.
Love, Dad”
Hot tears hit the paper. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let myself cry. All my life I did my best to be strong. I was strong when my parents left.
Strong when no one came back for me.
Strong when Mr. Sloan dumped dirt on my roses…
My father, my own father, punishing me for being his ghost.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, hugging my knees. The storm had passed. I finally took Rose’s hand. Her eyes were swollen like she’d been crying too.
“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” I whispered.
“But I want to try. I want us both to try.”
“We’ve wasted so many years.”
We sat like that, two women who’d been too hard on the world, and too hard on ourselves, feeling like we didn’t have to fight alone anymore.
Outside, the roses bent in the wind. But they didn’t break.
And neither would we.
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