Margaret stared thoughtfully at the exquisite bouquet delivered by a courier half an hour earlier. There was no mistake—the flowers were meant for her. The note tucked inside confirmed it with just two words: *”To Lovely Margaret.”*
A secret admirer had appeared just after her divorce. The split from Andrew had been painful, not because of lingering affection, but because of the cruelty of his mother—and the way he’d always sided with her.
How strange it all was. That very evening, when Margaret returned home with the divorce papers, a courier had rung the doorbell with a lavish bouquet of roses. At first, she thought it was Andrew mocking her. But flowers like these cost money, and her ex-husband had never been generous—only once, long ago.
From then on, the bouquets arrived two or three times a week, each accompanied by a brief note. She puzzled endlessly over who could be sending them.
Gazing at the roses now, she remembered the one time Andrew had bought her flowers—after a bitter argument. His mother, Helen, had made it her mission to drive a wedge between them.
*”You’re wasting money!”* he’d shouted, furious when he learned she’d visited an upscale salon for a manicure.
*”It wasn’t that much,”* she countered. *”I work too, I’ve a right to spend on myself.”*
*”We agreed to discuss big expenses! Your nails cost a fortune. Mum told me!”*
Margaret scoffed. Of course—Helen was behind this, too. She’d despised her daughter-in-law from the start, nagging relentlessly. Andrew never defended her. He took his mother’s side on everything—the *”filthy”* windows, the *”disgraceful”* slit in her dress.
*”Your boss is a man,”* Helen hissed to him. *”Bet she wiggles her backside for promotions.”*
Instead of shutting her down, Andrew agreed. Every whispered accusation led to another fight. The final blow came when he insulted her looks—*”Look at you, like a cow now!”*—just because his mother pointed out imaginary weight gain.
Margaret left for good.
On the day the divorce finalized, the first bouquet arrived—from someone unknown. Then another, and another. Meanwhile, Andrew’s parents split when Helen found florist receipts in her husband Charles’s pocket.
*”All these years, you coward,”* she shrieked, *”and now you’re cheating?”*
Charles admitted it plainly. He’d loved another woman for years—someone he sent flowers to anonymously.
When Margaret heard the news, her heart raced. She remembered how Charles had never joined in the abuse, even defended her once or twice. The realization hit her like lightning.
That night, when the next bouquet came, she called him.
*”Charles… was it you?”*
A pause. Then, quietly: *”Yes.”*
*”Why?”*
*”Because I love you. I have for years.”*
She was stunned. *”But you never said—”*
*”How could I? You were my son’s wife.”*
He asked only to remain in her life, even if just as a friend. *”Andrew never spoiled you. Let me give you roses.”*
Not long after, a pipe burst in her tiny flat. She panicked—until Charles guided her calmly over the phone, then showed up to fix it himself. Over tea, they talked. He helped her pick a car. Within months, friendship turned to love.
For the first time, Margaret knew what it was to be cherished—not criticized, not controlled. Charles shielded her from outrage, even confronting Andrew: *”Insult her again, and you’ll regret it.”*
His ex-wife screeched about scandal, but he silenced her with a threat: *”Keep harassing her, and I’ll reclaim half the flat you love so much.”*
Margaret’s own mother was appalled. *”An old man? What will people say?”*
*”If they judge me, why would you care for their opinions?”*
In the end, none of it mattered. They married quietly, bought a home, built a life—one where she was finally, truly happy. And the roses?
They never stopped coming.
