Ryan kept a rose plant on his windowsill, its soil mixed with his late mother’s ashes. Every May it bloomed crimson, and caring for it made him feel close to her.
Six years after her death, his estranged father, Larry, called, claiming he was ill and needed to stay a few days. Reluctantly, Ryan agreed. But it soon became clear Larry had exaggerated—he simply wanted company and a break from his lonely life. Old resentment resurfaced, especially memories of Larry’s absence during his mother’s final weeks.
Then things got worse.
While Ryan was at work, Larry accidentally knocked over the rose pot, shattering it and throwing the soil—his mother’s ashes—into the trash. Ryan was devastated. Years of grief exploded. He ordered his father to leave and salvaged what little soil he could, though the rose eventually died.
Three years passed. Ryan published his first novel and planted new roses, mixing the remaining ashes into fresh soil. When Larry died suddenly, Ryan skipped the funeral. Instead, he wrote his father a letter—admitting his anger, but also realizing his mother lived on in memories, habits, and even in parts of his father.
Standing by his blooming roses, Ryan whispered into the rain, “I’m working on it.”
