The air was thick with the scent of roses as Oliver tugged at the sleeve of a passing gentleman. “Excuse me, sir,” he whispered, “it’s my mum’s birthday today… I wanted to buy flowers, but I haven’t enough money…” The stranger bought him a bouquet. Hours later, standing at the graveside, he saw those same flowers resting there.
Oliver had been only four when his world crumbled. His mother vanished. He remembered standing in the parlour, bewildered by the hushed voices, the unfamiliar faces, the way no one would meet his eyes. Why did they murmur “Be brave, little lad” and embrace him as if something precious had slipped through his fingers? He hadnt lost hershe just wasnt there.
His father drifted through those days like a ghost, silent and hollow. When Oliver peered into the coffin, the woman inside was unrecognisablecold, waxen, nothing like the warm hands that had tucked him in at night.
Afterwards, the world turned grey. Two years passed. His father remarried. Margaret was not unkind, but neither was she kind. She scolded, she sighed, she found fault in everything. His father never spoke up, never defended him.
The pain curled inside Oliver like a sleeping thing, heavier with each passing year.
Today was special. His mothers birthday. He woke with a single thought: white roses. She had adored them. But where to get the money?
“Dad,” he ventured at breakfast, “might I have a few quid? I need”
Margaret cut in sharply. “Money? Already? Your father works his fingers to the bone, and you come begging forwhat, sweets? Toys?”
Oliver swallowed. “Flowers. For Mum. White roses.”
She scoffed. “Pick some daisies from the garden!”
“They arent the same,” he said quietly.
His father glanced up but said nothing, returning to his newspaper. The message was clear.
Oliver emptied his battered piggy bankjust coins, barely enough. He dashed to the florists, breathless. The roses in the window glowed like moonlight.
The shopkeeper eyed him with disdain. “No loitering. We dont sell sweets here.”
“I want to buy roses. How much?”
The price was double what he carried. “Please,” Oliver begged. “Ill sweep, Ill cleanjust lend them to me!”
“Get out before I call the constable!”
A man stepped in thentall, broad-shouldered. “Whats all this shouting?”
The florist sniffed. “This urchins causing trouble.”
The man crouched beside Oliver. “Whats the matter, lad?”
Olivers voice trembled. “Its my mums birthday. Shes gone. I wanted to bring her roses.”
The mans face softened. He bought two bouquetsone for Oliver, one for himself.
As Oliver clutched the flowers, the manEdwardsmiled. “Your mum would be proud.”
Oliver hesitated. “May I pay you back?”
Edward shook his head. “Todays a special day for someone I love too.” His gaze grew distant.
Years ago, hed loved a woman named Eleanor. Theyd been inseparableuntil he was called to serve. A head injury stole his memory. By the time it returned, Eleanor had vanished.
Hed searched, but too late. Shed married another man, borne a child, then died. The neighbours words haunted him: “She was expecting when she wed…”
Edwards breath caught. That childcould it be?
At the cemetery, he found Eleanors grave. Fresh white roses lay upon it.
“Oliver,” he whispered.
He raced back, finding the boy on a park swing. A manEleanors husbandwatched from the doorway.
“Youve come,” the man said softly. “I always knew you would.”
Edwards throat tightened. “Hes mine?”
The man nodded. “Eleanor loved you till the end.”
Edward knelt before Oliver. “Im sorry I didnt know. Im here now.”
Oliver studied him with quiet eyes. “Mum said youd come one day.”
Edward gathered his son into his arms, weeping into his hair.
“Never again,” he vowed. “Never again.”
