The Flowers That Bring Happiness
Autumn was fading away, bidding farewell to the city with slow, lingering grace, leaving behind carpets of crimson and golden leaves, pierced by the cold glimmers of sunlight. The air had turned crisp and sharp—winter’s approach already whispered in the breeze. The tree branches stood bare, save for a few stubborn survivors, leaves clinging on as though refusing to surrender.
“The September blooms and the oak-flowers are wilting,” thought Clara as she walked to her flower shop. “The last guardians of autumn’s beauty.”
Since childhood, she had called asters “September blooms” and chrysanthemums “oak-flowers.” Flowers were her love, her essence, her very breath. While other girls played with dolls, she gathered bouquets, arranged petals, and sketched wreaths. Her dream had come true—she’d opened her own flower shop, and now every day began with the scent of roses, the vivid hues of gerberas, and the cool freshness of eucalyptus.
“Flowers aren’t just a business,” she told her friends. “They’re life. They’re me.”
Clara lived in Winchester, in a quiet neighbourhood near the old park. She was thirty-nine, sharing her home with her daughter, Lily—a bright, dreamy sixth-former determined to start university that summer.
Her marriage had lasted only three years. He hadn’t left for another woman—he’d left for his mother. Just like that. Quietly, as if those three years had never happened. He couldn’t stand flowers, called them “broomsticks,” grumbled that they “cluttered every windowsill.” But Clara couldn’t live without them—she needed to see life, to breathe in its fragrance, to feel the warmth of petals beneath her fingers.
“No men until Lily’s grown,” she resolved firmly. “If anyone comes along, they’ll have to love flowers—or at least not hate them.”
Her love for flowers came from her grandmother’s time. Summers were spent in a village near Salisbury, where fields stretched to the horizon and meadows bloomed like tapestries of heaven. Every day, she’d gather bouquets, and her grandmother would marvel, “Clara, who taught you to arrange them so beautifully?”
“No one, Granny. I just love them. When I grow up, I’ll open a shop—you’ll come visit me.”
“I believe you, dear. You take after your grandfather. He knew every herb, every flower. His old book’s still up in the attic.”
The book was real—worn, tattered, yet magical. Clara memorised its pages and, by her teens, could name every plant in the countryside. At school, she aced biology, and by graduation, she knew her life would revolve around flowers.
Her mother didn’t share her passion, preferring cucumbers and tomatoes in the garden, while Clara stubbornly planted nasturtiums and petunias wherever she could claim a patch of soil.
“Keep your flowers out of the vegetable beds,” her mother would scold. “There’s carrots meant to grow here!”
Her father just laughed. “Our little florist’s coming along.”
Clara never went to university—and never mourned it. She took floristry courses, worked in a flower stall. Years passed. A husband came—and went. Lily grew, and Clara finally opened her own flower stall, then a proper shop. Her parents helped, and on opening day, she wept with joy.
“Mum, I did it. This is mine.”
From then on, her life brimmed with petals, greenery, and grateful customers.
One day, an elegant woman named Imogen walked in, studied the display, and said, “Could you decorate my daughter’s wedding? I’ve watched your work—your bouquets are like something from a fairy tale.”
Clara agreed—not for money, but for love. She crafted everything with care: pastel arrangements, living garlands, delicate accents. When Imogen saw the hall, she was speechless.
“You have such talent… Thank you. You can’t imagine how deeply this touches me.”
Word of Clara’s skill spread. Orders poured in for banquets, anniversaries, exhibitions. Her shop became the heart of the neighbourhood.
Then, one day, a man walked in—forty-five, fit, pleasant, polite.
“Good morning. Are you Clara? I need a bouquet. Something special. The kind that makes a woman smile at once.”
She studied him—strong features, steady gaze. Something in his voice caught her.
“Who’s it for? A sweetheart, your mother, a daughter?”
“My mother. She’s turning seventy-five. I want her to feel warmth.”
Clara crafted a bouquet of roses, gerberas, and eucalyptus—alive, breathing.
“Thank you,” he said. “George. Lovely to meet you. I hope we’ll see each other again.”
Three days later, he returned.
“Clara, surprise! Three reasons. Mum adored the bouquet—spot on. Second, I liked you. Third—I’d love to take you for coffee. If you’ll let me.”
She blushed. “I’d like that.”
They talked for hours. George was a biology teacher. They spoke of plants, books, films—discovering more that united than divided them.
They began meeting. New Year’s in the Lake District, where he taught her to ski and she taught him tulip varieties. Lily started university. Clara and George married.
Now they work together. He helps before holidays, unloads boxes, jokes with customers.
Once, as he unpacked crates, he witnessed a scene:
A flustered young man burst in. “Help! I upset my girlfriend. I need a bouquet to make her forgive me!”
Clara pondered, then crafted a soft blush-and-cream arrangement, delicate as forgiveness itself.
The lad thanked her and left.
A year later, Clara was stopped by a couple with a pram.
“Remember me?” the young man asked. “That bouquet worked—and here’s the proof!”
A baby slept in the pram.
“My goodness,” Clara breathed. “I’m so happy for you.”
She returned home, glowing. George waited with supper.
“George, what a day! You won’t believe—”
He listened, then said, “Because your flowers don’t just bring beauty. They bring happiness.”
Clara looked at her shop, her man, her life, and thought:
*Yes. Everything’s as it should be. Because when you love what you do—when you pour your soul into it—happiness will bloom. Like the most cherished flower.*
