For Ryan, the rose plant on his windowsill wasn’t just a flower—it was sacred. It held a secret, something precious. Years ago, he had mixed his mother’s ashes into the soil, turning it into a living memory of her. Every May, without fail, deep crimson roses would bloom. And every May, Ryan would care for them like they were his mother’s breath made visible.
Until the day his father—who he barely spoke to anymore—accidentally knocked the pot off the windowsill, and everything shattered.
The roses didn’t bloom in November, the month his mom, Rose, had died. No, they bloomed in May—the month she had first planted them back when Ryan was a child in their garden at home. That always felt poetic to him. Life still blooming even after death.
At 26, Ryan had a quiet routine. He lived alone, worked at a library, and spent his free time writing. He took care of the rose plant with the same tenderness his mother once showed. He’d gently touch the soil, checking its moisture like she taught him. Not too dry. Not too wet. It had to be just right.
One small rosebud was starting to form. It was still green and tiny, but full of promise.
“Look, Mom,” Ryan whispered, brushing a fingertip over the bud. “Another one’s coming.”
His black cat, Salem, rubbed against his legs and purred as if she agreed. He smiled and bent down to scratch her ears, earning a happy meow.
Then his phone buzzed. He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
With a sigh, Ryan picked it up. His father’s name flashed across the screen. His thumb hovered over the red “decline” button. He didn’t want to answer. He hadn’t talked to his dad properly in years. Not since his mom died.
But then a little voice in his head—his mother’s voice, maybe—urged him to be kind. So he answered.
“Hello?” His voice was flat, emotionless.
“Ryan? It’s your dad.”
Six years had passed since Rose died, and Ryan and his father still spoke like strangers. Back then, his mom had been the bridge between them, the only one who understood them both. Without her, their connection had snapped like a dry twig. Now they only exchanged awkward holiday calls or stiff text messages.
Ryan kept his father at a distance. He ignored most of his calls and answered texts with cold, one-word replies. He hadn’t forgiven him—not for disappearing during his mom’s final weeks, not for drinking while she withered away in the hospital bed alone. Ryan had been there, every day. His father hadn’t.
Some betrayals were just too big to forgive.
“Hey, Dad,” Ryan said, leaning on the windowsill and staring at the city outside. “Everything okay?”
“Not really,” Larry said, his voice hoarse. Ryan stood up straighter. “I’m a little under the weather. Nothing major,” he added quickly, “but the doctor said I shouldn’t be alone for a few days.”
Ryan shut his eyes. Finals week was starting at the library—his busiest time of year. He had been planning to spend his nights writing his novel, the one he’d been working on for two years now.
“Can’t Uncle Mike help out?” he asked.
“He’s on a fishing trip. I wouldn’t ask, Ryan, if I had another option. It’s just for a few days.”
Ryan glanced at the rose plant. The soil was still sacred, still filled with his mom’s ashes. What would she want him to do?
“Fine,” he finally said. “But Dad, my apartment is small. I have routines. Personal boundaries. You need to respect that.”
“Of course,” his father replied, sounding relieved. “I’ll catch the afternoon bus. Then a taxi to your place. Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan hung up and instantly regretted it. Salem jumped onto the windowsill, nudging his hand.
“Well,” Ryan muttered, “looks like we’re having a visitor.”
Larry arrived that evening, looking older than Ryan remembered. His hair was all gray now, his face more lined. Or maybe Ryan had never looked at him closely since Mom died.
“Nice place,” Larry said, dropping his duffel bag in the living room. “Cozy.”
“You’ll sleep on the pull-out couch,” Ryan replied, stiffly. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Kitchen’s over there. I work till six most days.”
“Still at the library?”
“Yes.”
Then came silence. Finally, Larry cleared his throat. “How’s the writing going?”
Ryan was surprised he remembered. “It’s going… well.”
“Your mom always said you had talent.”
Ryan’s chest squeezed at the mention of her. “There’s soup in the fridge if you’re hungry. I need to feed Salem.”
He escaped to his room. Salem was already waiting on the bed. The rose plant stood tall in the window’s soft evening light. Ryan gently touched one of the leaves, seeking comfort.
“Just a few days,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Mom.”
But his father didn’t act sick at all.
The next evening, Ryan came home to find Larry had gone out for groceries.
“You didn’t have anything but those microwave meals, son,” Larry said when he returned, cooking a full dinner in Ryan’s kitchen.
The day after that, he said he’d gone to a matinee movie down the street.
By the third day, Ryan came home to a note on the kitchen counter:
“Gone to catch the sunset at the beach. Back by 7. Sorry! :)”
Ryan crumpled the note in his hand, his jaw tight. He had changed his whole schedule, given up his writing time—for what? So his dad could take a mini vacation?
When Larry returned, his cheeks pink from the sea air, Ryan was waiting.
“You’re not sick at all, are you?”
Larry’s face fell. “I may have exaggerated a bit.”
“Why would you lie to me?” Ryan snapped.
Larry sat down, looking ashamed. “Because you wouldn’t have said yes otherwise. And I… I wanted to see you. Spend time together. And have a few good days in the city.”
“So you lied instead of just asking?”
“Would you have agreed if I told you the truth?”
Ryan didn’t answer. His silence said it all.
Then something snapped. Ryan scoffed, shaking his head.
“You want the truth? Fine. When Mom was hooked up to chemo and couldn’t even drink water without throwing up, I was the one there. I took her to appointments. Held her hair when she puked. Lied to her face that everything would be fine.”
Larry opened his mouth, but Ryan kept going.
“And you? You were off gambling, drinking, playing poker. Like nothing at home was falling apart. She kept asking for you. Even when she could barely breathe.”
Ryan’s voice trembled now. “So no. I wouldn’t have said yes. Because after she died… there was nothing left to say to you.”
Larry sighed. “I’m lonely, Ryan. The house is so empty now. Everyone back home knows me as ‘Rose’s husband’ or ‘Ryan’s dad.’ Sometimes I just need to be somewhere else. I’m sorry… for everything.”
For a moment, Ryan felt a pang of sympathy. But then he remembered the lies.
“You should’ve been honest,” Ryan said coldly. “I’m going to bed. You can leave tomorrow.”
“Ryan—”
“Good night, Dad.”
The next day, Ryan worked a late shift. He left before his father woke up, still burning with anger. He snapped at students, almost shelved a biography in the fiction section. His thoughts were tangled with frustration.
When he finally got home, his heart longed for peace—just him, Salem, and the rose plant. His quiet little world.
The apartment was silent. Maybe Larry had already left.
But then, from his bedroom, he heard movement.
“Dad?” he called.
“In here,” Larry replied, sounding strange.
Ryan stepped inside—and froze.
Larry was standing next to the trash can, broom in hand, sweeping up shards of the rose pot. Stems and leaves poked out of the trash like forgotten garbage.
Ryan’s legs buckled. A cold chill shot through him.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
Larry looked up, full of regret. “I’m so sorry, Ryan. I was just trying to open the window. It felt stuffy, and… my elbow knocked it over.”
Ryan rushed to the trash, hands shaking, digging through it. Broken roots, torn leaves… and the soil.
The soil with his mother’s ashes… now mixed with tissues and wrappers.
“Do you even know what you’ve done?” Ryan’s voice cracked. “How could you?”
Larry looked confused. “It’s just a plant. We can get another—”
“IT HAD MOM’S ASHES IN IT!” Ryan shouted, all his pain and anger exploding at once. “When we scattered her ashes at the lake, I kept some. I mixed them into the soil. That plant was her. Every time it bloomed… she was still here!”
Larry’s face turned pale. “What?? Ryan, son, I didn’t know—”
“Of course not!” Ryan snapped. “You never asked. Never paid attention. She was all I had, and now you’ve thrown her away like trash.”
Larry shook his head. “That’s not fair. I loved your mother more than anything.”
“Then where were you when she was dying? Where were you at three in the morning when she called for you and couldn’t breathe? You disappeared. And now this.”
Ryan held the broken rose in his hands. “I want you gone. Now.”
Larry nodded, heartbroken. “I’ll pack my things.”
Ryan didn’t watch him leave. He picked through the trash, gathered the remaining sacred soil, and replanted the broken stems in a new pot—even though he knew they probably wouldn’t survive.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered, tears dripping into the soil. “I should’ve protected this… protected you.”
Three years passed.
Ryan finished his novel—a book about grief, family, and forgiveness. A small publisher picked it up. It didn’t make him rich, but it was a start.
He moved into a new apartment with a sunny balcony, filled with flowers. The original rose had died, as expected. But he had planted new ones, mixing in what little sacred soil remained. They weren’t the same—but they bloomed every May.
Then, one quiet Tuesday evening, Uncle Mike called.
“Your dad… had a heart attack,” he said, his voice heavy. “He didn’t make it. The funeral’s on Saturday. Everyone’s hoping you’ll come.”
Ryan hung up in a daze. He felt… empty.
Saturday morning came. The suit hung ready in his closet. But instead of getting dressed, Ryan sat at his desk and began to write.
“Dear Dad,
I’m not at your funeral today. I should be, but I’m not. Maybe that makes me a terrible son. But I learned how to disappear… from you.
I’ve spent three years being angry. Three years blaming you for breaking something sacred. But now I see—it wasn’t just a rose pot you broke. You broke the shrine I built around Mom’s memory.
She’s not in that soil. Not really. She’s in how I organize my books, because it made her smile. She’s in my love for thunderstorms and chocolate for breakfast. She’s in me.
And, as much as I hate to admit it… she’s in you too. In your hands. Your laugh.
I’m not ready to forgive you completely. But I’m trying, Dad. I really am.
Your son,
Ryan.”
Tears streamed down Ryan’s face. Outside, spring rain gently fell. The roses were budding again.
He picked up his phone and called Uncle Mike.
“I can’t make it today,” he said softly. “But I want to visit soon. I’d like to see where he’s buried.”
After hanging up, Ryan stepped onto his balcony. The new rose plant sat on the windowsill—inside it, the last bit of soil holding his mother’s ashes.
Beside it, he placed a photo he had found that morning—his mom and dad on their wedding day, smiling and hopeful.
He touched the pot gently.
“I’m working on it, Mom,” he whispered into the rain. “I’m working on it.”
