The Flowers That Bring Happiness
Autumn was fading, lingering over the city, leaving behind carpets of crimson and gold leaves streaked with cold sunlight. The air turned crisp and sharp—already carrying the scent of winter. Tree branches grew bare, though a few stubborn leaves clung on, refusing to surrender until the very end.
“September-flares and oak-daisies are wilting,” thought Daisy, walking towards her flower shop. “The last autumn guardians of beauty.”
She had always called asters “September-flares,” and chrysanthemums “oak-daisies.” Flowers were her love, her essence, her very breath. While other girls played with dolls, she arranged bouquets, laid out petals, and sketched wreaths. Her dream had come true—she owned a little flower shop now, and every day began with the scent of roses, the bright hues of gerbera, and the cool freshness of eucalyptus.
“Flowers aren’t just business. They’re life. They’re me,” she’d tell friends.
Daisy lived in Norwich, in a quiet corner near an old park. She was thirty-nine, raising her daughter Lily—a bright, dreamy girl in her last year of school, determined to start university in the summer.
Her marriage had lasted only three years. He hadn’t left for another woman—he’d gone back to his mother. Just like that, as if those years had never happened. He couldn’t stand flowers, calling them “dust-collectors,” grumbling about “every windowsill being cluttered.” But Daisy couldn’t live without them—she needed their life, their scent, the warmth of petals beneath her fingers.
“No men until Lily’s grown. If someone comes along, they’ll have to love flowers—or at least not hate them,” she decided firmly.
Her love for blooms came from her grandmother. Summers spent in a village near Cambridge, where fields stretched to the horizon and wildflower meadows resembled heavenly tapestries. Every day, she’d gather bouquets, and her gran would marvel:
“Daisy, who taught you to arrange them so beautifully?”
“No one, Gran. I just love them. When I grow up, I’ll have a shop—you’ll visit me.”
“I believe you, love. You take after your grandad. Knew every plant, every flower—his old book’s still up in the loft,” Gran would sigh.
The book was real—worn, tattered, but magical. Daisy memorized it, and by her teens, she could name every local plant. School biology was effortless, and by graduation, she knew her life would always be entwined with flowers.
Her mum didn’t share the passion. Tomatoes and beans held more appeal, while Daisy stubbornly planted nasturtiums and petunias wherever she could claim soil.
“Keep your flowers out of my veg patch,” Mum would grumble. “I need space for carrots!”
Dad just laughed. “Our little florist’s growing up.”
After school, Daisy skipped university without regret. She took floristry courses, worked in a flower stall. Years passed. A husband came and went. Lily grew, and Daisy finally opened her own little shop. Then—a proper store. Her parents helped, and on opening day, she cried with joy.
“Mum, I did it. This is mine.”
From then on, her world brimmed with petals, greenery, and grateful customers.
One day, an elegant woman named Eleanor walked in, glanced at the display, and said:
“Could you decorate my daughter’s wedding venue? I’ve watched your work—your bouquets aren’t just flowers, they’re stories.”
Daisy agreed—not for money, but for love. She crafted soft pastel arrangements, living garlands, delicate accents. When Eleanor stepped into the hall, she faltered.
“You’ve such a gift… Thank you. You’ve no idea how deeply this touches me.”
Word spread. Banquets, anniversaries, exhibitions—all wanted Daisy’s touch. Her shop became the heart of the neighbourhood.
Then, one day, a man walked in—mid-forties, fit, pleasant, polite.
“Hello. Daisy, is it? I need a bouquet. Something special. One that’ll make a woman smile the moment she sees it.”
She studied him. Strong features, steady gaze. Something in his voice caught her.
“Who’s it for? A lover, a mother, a daughter?”
“My mum. Her seventy-fifth. I want her to feel warmth.”
Daisy crafted a breathtaking blend of roses, gerbera, and eucalyptus—alive, breathing.
“Thank you,” he said. “George. A pleasure. Hope to see you again.”
Three days later, he returned.
“Surprised, Daisy? Three reasons. One—Mum adored the bouquet. Spot on. Two—I liked you. Three—I’d love to take you for coffee. If you’ll let me.”
She smiled, flustered.
“I’d love that. Why not?”
Over coffee, they talked for hours. George taught biology. They spoke of plants, books, films—discovering more that bound them than set them apart.
They grew inseparable. That New Year, they skied in the Lake District—he taught her slopes, she taught him tulip varieties. Summer came, Lily left for university. Daisy and George married.
Now they worked side by side. He helped in the shop before holidays, unloaded boxes, joked with customers. One day, while sorting stock, he witnessed a scene:
A frantic young man burst in, breathless.
“Help! I upset my girlfriend. Make me a bouquet—something that’ll make her forgive me!”
Daisy pondered, then crafted a soft rose-and-cream arrangement with baby’s breath and mimosa—gentle as forgiveness itself.
The lad thanked her and left.
A year later, a couple with a pram stopped her in the street.
“Remember me?” the man asked. “I came for the bouquet. Well—here’s the result!”
Inside the pram, a baby slept.
“My goodness…” Daisy could barely speak. “I’m so happy for you.”
She rushed home, bursting to share the story. George had dinner ready.
“Georgie, you won’t believe my day! Just listen…”
He listened, then smiled.
“Because your flowers don’t just bring beauty. They bring happiness.”
Daisy looked at her shop, at her man, at her life, and thought:
“Yes. Everything’s as it should be. When you love what you do—when you pour your soul into it—happiness blooms. Like the most cherished flower of all.”
