“Sir, I want to buy flowers for my mom’s birthday… but I don’t have enough money.”
The boy’s voice trembled. I gave him a bouquet.
Later that day, at the cemetery, I saw that same bouquet resting on a grave.
Years earlier, little Pasha lost his mom. His home turned cold. His dad grew distant. A new stepmother made life even harder. But Pasha never forgot his mother — especially on her birthday.
All he wanted was to leave white calla lilies at her grave. Her favorite. But no one would help — not his stepmother, not his father.
So he ran to a flower shop with his coins, begged for the bouquet. The seller yelled at him, humiliated him.
I stepped in. Bought the flowers. He tried to pay me back, but I refused. I was heading to the same cemetery… to visit my own lost love, Ira.
When I arrived at her grave, I froze. There, on the headstone, was the bouquet I had bought — left by her son.
My son.
I ran to find him. When I did, I pulled him into my arms.
“I always knew you’d come,” he said.
“I just didn’t know when.”
