The Old Man’s Final Trick
I always thought my grumpy neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived just to make my life miserable. But the morning he dumped dirt all over my roses, I had no idea he’d already set a trap for me—one I’d never escape.
The Roses That Started It All
I loved mornings. The quiet hum of the suburbs, the fresh air, the way the sunlight hit my little garden just right. It was my sanctuary.
I was a florist, making bouquets for weddings and special occasions. That summer, brides couldn’t get enough of my roses—roses I grew myself, right in my own yard. They were my pride, my livelihood.
So when I stepped onto my porch that morning, coffee in hand, and saw my perfect flower bed buried under a mountain of dark soil, I nearly choked.
What the—?
My roses were gone. Smothered. Destroyed.
I clenched my fists. “Oh, come on! Who else would do this but that old nightmare?”
Mr. Sloan. My neighbor. The man who had made it his retirement mission to ruin my peace.
“This time, I’m telling him exactly what I think!” I muttered, storming toward his house.
But then I stopped.
There were unfamiliar cars parked outside his place. A small crowd stood in the yard, murmuring.
My stomach twisted. Something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked Mrs. Pearson, who lived down the street.
She turned to me with sad eyes. “Oh, Linda… Harold Sloan passed away last night. Heart attack.”
All my anger drained away, sinking into the ground like rainwater.
Before I could process it, a man in a crisp suit approached me.
“Miss M.?” he said, extending a hand. “James H., Mr. Sloan’s lawyer. After the funeral, we’ll be reading his will. You’re required to attend.”
“Me? Why?”
“His final request. You’ll understand everything soon.”
I glanced back at my ruined roses, a single crushed bloom poking through the dirt.
A shiver ran down my spine.
What kind of game are you playing now, Sloan?
The Funeral and the Secret
The next day, I sat in the back of the funeral hall, staring at Mr. Sloan’s coffin. Memories of our fights played in my head—the way he’d glare at me from his porch, the petty complaints, the endless frustration.
What did you leave for me, old man? What’s your last trick?
After the service, the lawyer led me into a small office. An elderly woman sat by the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked… fragile.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’ve gathered you both here to read Mr. Sloan’s will. Two points concern you, Linda.”
I gripped the edge of the chair.
“First,” he continued, “you inherit Mr. Sloan’s house. The entire property.”
“What?” I blurted. “He left his house to ME? After everything?”
“Under one condition.”
Of course. There had to be a catch.
“You must take in Mrs. Rose D.”—he nodded to the woman beside me—“and care for her as long as she lives.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me? Care for her? Why?”
Rose turned to me with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t be any trouble.”
I swallowed hard. “Is this… optional?”
The lawyer shook his head. “If you refuse, you forfeit the house.”
Perfect. Just perfect. My tiny rental was eating up my savings, and now my roses—my income—were destroyed. Sloan had made sure of that before he died.
But his yard? It was full of rose bushes. The same kind I needed to save my business.
I looked at Rose. She smiled again, soft and hopeful.
“We’ll be good company for each other, won’t we?” she said.
I nodded. I was the kind of person who helped others.
How bad could one sweet old lady be?
The Trap Springs Shut
The first few days, I told myself it would be fine.
I had the land. I had the roses. All I had to do was take care of Rose.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
It started with steamed broccoli.
“Sweetheart, could you make me some? Not too soft, please—my stomach is delicate.”
Then it was tomato salad—but not just any salad. The tomatoes had to be peeled, sliced into thin strips.
“You’re such a kind girl,” she said as I struggled with the knife. “No one’s ever done something so nice for me.”
At night, I woke to the sound of a little bell.
“Warm milk, dear. It helps me sleep.”
Then it was the radiators.
“The wind is howling. Could you check them?”
Then her pills.
“Sweetheart, I think these are expired. Could you go to the pharmacy?”
“Rose, it’s five in the morning!”
“I just need my migraine medicine. The pain is unbearable.”
The nearest pharmacy was forty minutes away. I took Sloan’s old bicycle and rode through the dark. When I got back, Rose was fast asleep.
“Rose? I got your pills.”
“Oh, sweetheart… Sleep is the best medicine.”
“But—”
“Shhh. You’ll scare away my healing.”
I gritted my teeth. That day, I didn’t sleep at all.
Later, while searching for a watering can in the garage, I found an old box. The lid was slightly open.
Curious, I lifted it.
Inside were photographs. Black-and-white, faded.
One of them made my breath catch.
It was me.
No—not me. A woman who looked exactly like me, holding a baby. And beside her… a young Mr. Sloan.
I flipped the photo over. Scrawled on the back:
“Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
My hands trembled.
My girl?
A voice behind me made me jump.
“Oh, you found the old pictures,” Rose said softly. “That was back when everything was… different.”
I turned. She stood in the doorway, watching me.
“The woman in this photo… her name is Rose. That’s you?”
She sighed. “Some things never fade, no matter how hard you try to forget.”
“I look just like you.”
“Not now, dear. I need my medicine.”
She turned and left, leaving me with that box—and a thousand questions.
Who was she? Who was that baby?
I grew up in foster care. My mother had abandoned me as a baby. That was all I knew.
But now…
If Sloan had a daughter, why wasn’t she at the funeral?
Why Rose?
Why me?
And why did her eyes look at me like she knew something I didn’t?
I had to find out the truth.
Because maybe… it was my truth too.
The Storm Breaks
That night, rain hammered against the windows as I knocked on Rose’s door.
“We need to talk,” I said. “That baby in the photo—who was she?”
Rose patted the chair beside her. “Sit, dear. I suppose you’re ready now.”
She took a deep breath.
“We were just kids, Harold and I. Stupid, in love, and broke. We thought we could make it work. But life… life doesn’t care about love when you have nothing else.”
“So the baby… she was yours? Yours and Sloan’s?”
Rose’s eyes glistened. “Born August 1985. A hot summer. We had no money, no home. We thought… if we gave her up, she’d have a better life.”
My chest tightened.
“Sloan looked for her, didn’t he?”
“It took him years. He said it was the one thing he had to make right before he died. That’s why he moved here. He used to watch you from the window—your roses, your strength. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“That you’d hate him.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“And you? Why did he leave you with me?”
Rose smiled sadly. “I’m sick, dear. Harold thought… maybe we could still have time. He wrote you a letter. I was supposed to wait until you were ready.”
She handed me an envelope. My name was written on it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Linda,
I deserve every angry word you could throw at me. I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but I was never brave enough to face 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 fire—that was the only good thing I did at the end.
I hope one day you forgive your mother for all she couldn’t do. And maybe, you’ll forgive me too.
Take care of her. Take care of yourself. No more secrets now.
Love,
Dad”
Tears splashed onto the paper.
All my life, I’d been strong. Strong when my parents left. Strong when no one came back. Strong when Sloan ruined my roses.
But now?
My own father had spent years tormenting me—punishing me for being the ghost of his past.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, crying.
Finally, Rose took my hand. Her fingers were thin, fragile.
“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“But I want to try.”
She squeezed my hand. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
We sat like that—two women who had spent too many years fighting the world, and ourselves.
Outside, the wind howled, bending the roses.
But they didn’t break.
And neither would we.