To Ryan, the rose plant sitting on his windowsill wasn’t just a flower. It was sacred. He had mixed his mother’s ashes into the soil. Every time the crimson roses bloomed, it felt like she was breathing again. Alive, in a quiet and beautiful way. He took care of it like his mother’s spirit lived inside the petals.
And then, one day, his father came to visit—clumsy, awkward—and knocked the pot to the ground. The crash shattered more than just ceramic. It broke something deep inside Ryan.
Every year, in May, the roses would bloom. That was the month his mom, Rose, had planted them in the garden when he was just a boy. She hadn’t died in May—she passed away in November—but May was when life always came back to those flowers. To Ryan, it was poetic. Life kept going, even after death.
Now, at 26, Ryan still followed his mom’s exact routine. He’d press his finger into the soil. Not too dry. Not too wet. Just right. Balanced. Perfect.
The rose didn’t need much. A little water. Some sunlight. A lot of love. That was all. A new bud was forming—small, green, and full of promise.
Ryan leaned in and gently touched it. “Look, Mom,” he whispered. “Another one’s coming.”
His black cat, Salem, rubbed against his legs and purred loudly, like she understood. Ryan chuckled and gave her a scratch behind the ears. She let out a happy meow.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
Sighing, he reached for it. His father’s name flashed on the screen.
His thumb hovered over “Decline,” but a small voice in his head—maybe his mom’s—whispered, “Be kind.” So he answered.
“Hello?” His voice sounded cold and distant.
“Ryan? It’s your dad.”
Six years had passed since Rose died, but Ryan and his father still talked like strangers. His mother had always been the bridge between them—translating their different kinds of love. Without her, the bridge had collapsed. Now there were only holiday texts and awkward birthday calls.
Ryan had pulled away. He didn’t answer his dad’s messages. Didn’t return the calls. Deep down, the hurt still burned.
He would never forget the empty chair beside his mother’s hospital bed. His father had chosen the bar over her final days. That kind of betrayal couldn’t be forgiven.
“Hey, Dad,” Ryan said, leaning against the windowsill, staring at the city. “Everything okay?”
“Not really,” his dad, Larry, answered. His voice sounded weak. “Doctor says I shouldn’t be alone for a few days. It’s nothing serious, just… better if someone’s around.”
Ryan closed his eyes. It was finals week at the library where he worked—one of the busiest times. He’d planned to spend his nights working on his novel, the one he’d rewritten a dozen times already.
“Can’t Uncle Mike help?”
“He’s out fishing. Son, I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice. It’s just for a few days.”
Ryan looked over at the rose pot. The sacred soil. His mother’s ashes.
What would she want me to do?
“Fine,” he said, after a long pause. “But Dad… my place is small. I have routines. Personal space. You need to respect that.”
“Of course,” Larry said quickly, relief pouring into his voice. “I’ll take the afternoon bus. Thank you, Ryan.”
After hanging up, Ryan turned to Salem. She jumped on the windowsill and rubbed her head against his hand.
“Well,” he muttered, “we’re having a visitor.”
When Larry arrived, he looked older. More tired. The wrinkles around his eyes were deeper. His hair had gone completely gray.
“Nice place,” he said, setting his bag down. “Cozy.”
Ryan gave a stiff nod. “You’ll sleep on the couch. Bathroom’s there. Kitchen’s over there. I work until six most days.”
“You still at the library?”
“Yes.”
An awkward silence followed.
“How’s the writing going?” Larry asked.
Ryan blinked, surprised his father remembered. “It’s going… okay.”
“Your mom always said you had talent.”
Ryan’s heart twisted. He didn’t want to hear that from him.
“There’s soup in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Ryan said quickly. “I need to feed the cat.”
He escaped to his room. Salem was waiting for him on the bed. The rose plant was glowing in the golden light. Ryan touched a leaf, needing that connection to his mother.
“Just a few days,” he whispered. “Good night, Mom.”
But Larry didn’t act sick at all.
The next evening, Ryan came home to find bags of groceries on the counter.
“You didn’t have anything but microwave dinners,” Larry said. He’d cooked a full meal.
The day after that, Larry went to see a movie.
Then came the note on the third day:
“Gone to watch the sunset at the beach. Back by 7. Sorry! :)”
Ryan stood in the kitchen, crumpling the note in his fist. His jaw tightened. He had sacrificed his peace and writing time for this?
When Larry finally returned, smiling and sun-kissed, Ryan exploded.
“You’re not sick at all, are you?”
Larry looked guilty. “I might have… exaggerated.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you lie to me?”
“Because you wouldn’t have said yes otherwise,” Larry admitted, sitting on the couch. “I just wanted to spend time with you… and maybe enjoy the city a little.”
“You manipulated me,” Ryan snapped. “You could’ve just asked to visit.”
Larry shrugged. “Would you have let me?”
Ryan didn’t answer.
Then the pain spilled out.
“You want the truth?” he said bitterly. “When Mom was dying, I was the one holding her hair while she threw up. I was the one driving her to chemo, telling her she’d be okay even when we both knew she wouldn’t be. And where were you? At a bar? Playing poker? She kept asking for you. Even when she couldn’t breathe anymore.”
His voice shook. But he didn’t cry.
Larry sighed, rubbing his face. “I’m lonely, Ryan. The house is empty. The village is quiet. I just wanted… to feel something again. I’m sorry for everything.”
Ryan felt a tiny flicker of pity. But it was crushed by the lie.
“You should’ve been honest. I’m going to bed. Leave tomorrow.”
“Ryan—”
“Good night, Dad.”
The next day, Ryan left early for his late shift at the library. He was angry. Distant. He snapped at a student who returned a book with a coffee stain and almost shelved a history biography under fiction.
When he finally climbed the stairs to his apartment, his body felt heavy with exhaustion.
He just wanted his space. His quiet. His rose plant.
But the apartment felt… too quiet.
“Dad?” he called.
“In here,” came the reply—from his bedroom.
Ryan walked in—and froze.
His father stood by the trash can, broom in hand. Pieces of the rose pot lay shattered on the floor. Among them were torn leaves and broken stems.
His knees nearly gave out.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
Larry looked stunned, guilt flooding his face. “I’m sorry. I tried to open the window, it was stuffy… my elbow—Ryan, I didn’t mean to…”
Ryan pushed past him, hands shaking. He dug into the trash, his fingers closing around roots, petals… and soil.
Soil that held his mother’s ashes—now mixed with tissues and garbage.
“You don’t get it,” Ryan whispered. “That wasn’t just a plant. That had Mom’s ashes. Every time it bloomed, it felt like she was here.”
Larry’s face turned pale. “Oh my God. Ryan… I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Ryan snapped. “You never cared enough to ask. I kept part of her in that soil. You just threw her away.”
“I loved her,” Larry said quietly. “More than anything.”
“Then why weren’t you there when she needed you most?” Ryan’s voice cracked. “Where were you when she cried out for you? I stayed. I fought for her. You ran.”
He held the broken stems in shaking hands. “I want you to leave. Now.”
Larry nodded slowly. “I’ll pack.”
Ryan didn’t watch him go. Instead, he carefully gathered what soil he could save. He found an old pot and gently placed the broken rose stems inside. He knew they probably wouldn’t survive. But he had to try.
His hands hovered over the petals. His voice trembled.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve protected you.”
Tears dripped into the soil.
Three years later…
Ryan finished his novel.
It was about grief. About forgiveness. About family. A small publishing house accepted it. He still worked at the library—but now, he had hope.
He moved into a new apartment with a real balcony. A garden of potted plants lined the railing. The old rose plant had died, but Ryan mixed the last bit of that sacred soil with new earth. The roses bloomed again every May.
They weren’t the same—but they were beautiful.
Then, one Tuesday evening, the call came.
Uncle Mike. “Ryan… your father had a heart attack. He didn’t make it.”
Ryan said thank you and hung up. He didn’t cry. He just sat there, holding Salem in his lap as rain tapped on the window.
Saturday morning, he didn’t go to the funeral.
Instead, he opened his laptop and began to type.
“Dear Dad,
I’m not at your funeral today. I should be, but I’m not. Maybe that makes me a terrible son… but you and I both know I learned how to disappear from the best.
I’ve spent three years angry. But today, I realized something. You didn’t just break the rose pot that day. You broke the wall I’d built around Mom’s memory. That shrine I made to keep her separate from real life.
Mom’s not just in that soil. She’s in the way I arrange books. She’s in thunderstorms, and fresh flowers, and chocolate breakfasts. And… she’s in you too. In your hands. In your laugh. In your loneliness.
I didn’t come because I’m still learning how to forgive. But I’m trying. I really am.
—Your son, Ryan.”
He wiped his tears and stepped out to the balcony.
The roses were just starting to bloom.
Beside them, he placed a photo: his mom and dad on their wedding day—smiling, young, and full of dreams.
He whispered to the rain, “I’m working on it, Mom. I’m working on it.”
