Tom Bought the Finest Bouquet and Set Off for His Date – Waiting by the Fountain in High Spirits, Flowers in Hand, But Emily Was Nowhere to Be Seen. He Called Her, No Answer. “Maybe She’s Just Running Late,” He Thought, and Tried Again. This Time, Emily Picked Up. “I’m Already Here, Where Are You?” Tom Asked Eagerly. “It’s Over Between Us!” Emily Suddenly Replied. “What? Why?” Tom Was Stunned. “Because of Your Bouquet!” She Snapped Unexpectedly. “What’s Wrong with My Bouquet?” Tom Asked, Utterly Confused

Author Emily TaylorReading 8 minViews 1

Simon bought the finest bouquet of flowers and set off for his date. In high spirits, he stood by the city fountain, clutching the bouquet in his hands. There was no sign of Emily. He glanced around and rang her number. No answer.

Perhaps shes running late, he thought, trying again. This time, Emily picked up.
Im already here, where are you? Simon asked at once.
Its over between us! Emily suddenly replied.
What? Why? Simon froze in shock.
Its because of your flowers! she blurted.
Whats wrong with them? he replied, utterly confused.

Simon had spent quite some time wandering through the flower shop. Burgundy roses, yellow tulips, white lilies, potted plants and flowers arranged into lavish, elegantly decorated bouquetssomething for every taste. Yet, Simon hesitated, uncertain.

He remembered a conversation with Emily about flowers, but the details escaped him.

Shed definitely mentioned there were some she absolutely disliked, but others she adored and could gaze at endlessly.

But, back then, at their first meeting, she had said so much. Simon was lost in the newness of it all, the lightness he felt from the sparkly wine at the cafe, and the charm of Emily herself.

Usually, he was the talkative one, but that evening, for some reason, he had simply nodded along, captivating by the lovely girlher long, straight hair, the graceful curve of her neck, the sweet dimples in her rosy cheeks. Maybe this was love?

What did it matter what flowers she talked about… The evening had been wonderful!

Now, no matter how hard he tried, Simon couldnt recall her preferences.

Look at these gerberas! Youll be hard-pressed to find these anywhereoff-season. Special variety, the florist said.

He was running out of time. He had to decide.

Andjust as he was about to speak uphis mobile buzzed. Mum called. Shed phoned far too often lately.

So, Simon, still havent decided? Its Friday, maybe youll come up for the weekend?
No, Mum, Ive things to do
Your grandmas waiting, she keeps glancing at the door, asking about you.
Mum, Im sorry, I just have a lot on right now Simon quickly ended the call.

His mother wanted him to visit their village where she lived with his gran. It wasnt the first time shed calledSimon was growing impatient.

Whats up with Gran? Shes been poorly for ages shes old But I cant give up everything and sit with her endlessly. I have my own life!

And his mind was very much preoccupiedwith his budding relationship. If their date went well tonight, tomorrow hed invite Emily for a day out.

He already knew where: a charming little spot just outside the city, a lovely retreat.

After all, his mum had been eager for him to settle down, and he was ready to make that happen.

If only he could remember which flowers Emily liked! What a dreadful memory!

But honestly, he thought, remembering every little thing about womenwas it really so important?

The tired florist stopped making suggestions and watched Simons indecision in silence.

Emily did say something about hating the thorns on roses Probably best not to get roses! he reasoned.

So, Simon chose a bouquet of large pink-and-white gerberas. After all, its the gesture that countsa bouquet is just a kind notice. He needed to get back to work; lunchtime was almost over.

They were meeting by the new city fountain. Simon was running late; his boss had kept him unexpectedly for a meetingthere was talk of a possible promotion.

He called to warn Emily hed be late, then silenced his phone. During the meeting, his mum rang silently. He didnt answer; he simply couldnt.

Afterwards, he raced to the date, still in a cheerful mood. He parked beside the rendezvous point and nearly sprinted to the fountain, clutching the gerberas.

No Emily. He looked about, wandered across the square, and rang her number. No answer.

Simon sat on a bench. Perhaps she was late as well.

He remembered that he hadnt yet rung his mum back, but hesitated to callwhat if Emily rang in the meantime? But she didnt. Ten minutes later, he rang her himself.

This time, Emily answered.

Emily, where are you? Ive been waiting.

I know. Im at the café opposite, up on the first floorIve been watching you for ages.

Really? Simon scanned the cafés tall windows, but couldnt spot her. I cant see youare you coming down, or?

Youre late she interrupted.

Yes, Em, Im sorry. I did callyou know, work held me up, my boss and all.

And the flowers!

What about the flowers? Simon couldnt see where this was going.

You dont even remember which flowers I like! Do you?

Emily, they just didnt have them!

Roses? You dont remember that I love roses? Theyre everywhere! Ive told you so many times that roses are my favourite And yet

Ill make it up to you Im coming upIll find you.

Simon entered the café. Emily sat at the far end, facing the window.

He approached quietly, and unable to muster the courage to hand over the bouquet, simply set it on the table. Emily didnt even glance at it.

Simon always had a knack for talking, and now, feeling at fault, he tried his best to charm her and win forgiveness.

He thought he sensed her thawingEmily even smiled a little.

They sipped their coffee and headed for the exit. Emily didnt give the bouquet a second glance.

You forgot your flowers, called a cheerful young waitress, catching up to them.

Theyre for you! Simon replied with a grin.

Oh, thank you, the girl said, surprised but visibly delighted.

Emilys face fell again.

Ill get you a huge bouquet of roses right now, Emily!

Dont bother, she muttered. Ive had quite enough flowers for one day.

They made their way down the stairs. Simon followed his wounded companion. Once againhis mum was calling.

Sorry, am I interrupting again?

Emily didnt hear.

No, Mum, youre right on time. Ill come. Ill come tomorrow.

That evening, Simon and Emily parted ways easily. Simon didnt hold out hopehe could see they would not see each other again.

And so, the next day, he drove across familiar fields.

There, the fields rolled on and on to the horizona patchwork of wildflowers bursting with life, the wind making them sway in waves.

Simon stopped and stepped outinto that colourful ocean.

Like a careful florist, Simon picked out a splendid bouquet of wildflowers, selecting the ones he found beautiful.

He knew for certain: those he was about to see would welcome his choice. He couldnt go wrong this time.

When he arrived at the family home, he split the bouquet in two.

His mother beamed and kissed him on both cheeks, but his gran

She needed help to stand. With shaky hands, she took the proffered bouquet, gently running her fingers over ither eyesight had faded.

How long had it been since shed been given flowers!

She dipped her face toward the bouquet and, with all the youthful spirit left in her, breathed in the scents, the familiar fragrances of long ago. Memories stirred in the back of her mind and now came alive, tugging at her soul.

Not only recollections, but the very feeling of anticipation, of something bright and wonderfully present.

How lovely! Life goes onit lives on in her grandson.

Simon sat down beside his gran and rested his head in her lap. She stroked his hair, careful not to crush the bouquet she held so gently.

As he lay there, Simon realised that one day he would meet someone, someone who reminded him of these two special women in his life. And that their love would be just as enduring as that of his grandparents and his parentsif, only, he recognised it in time.

Gran was reluctant to hand over her flowers to Mum.

Wait fetch some water the water from the well and a broad vase gently now put them here where I can see them

The grandson had given her flowers.

Flowers that could be found in countless fields, yet these these were the best of all. Because these were from her grandson.

And Simon learned: sometimes, the finest gestures are those made not out of grand plans, but out of love, remembrance, and the wish to bring joy to those who matter most.

I Can’t Be Your Mum and I Can’t Love You the Way You Want, But I’ll Take Care of You—Please Don’t Be Upset. Life with Us Will Be Better Than in a Children’s Home It Was a Difficult Day Today. John Was Burying His Sister—Wayward as She Was, She Was Still Family. They Hadn’t Seen Each Other for Five Years, and Now This Tragedy. Victoria Did Her Best to Support Her Husband, Taking On Most of the Responsibilities. Yet After the Funeral, Another Important Matter Awaited Them. Irene—John’s Sister—Had Left Behind a Young Son. All the Relatives Who Had Come to Say Goodbye to Irene Immediately Placed the Responsibility on Her Younger Brother. Who Else but His Uncle Should Take Care of the Boy? It Wasn’t Discussed—Everyone Just Assumed This Was the Only Right Solution. Victoria Understood, and She Wasn’t Really Against It, But There Was One Thing—She Had Never Wanted Children of Her Own, Let Alone Someone Else’s. She’d Made That Decision Long Ago, and Had Told John Honestly Before Their Wedding. He’d Brushed It Off, Not Worrying—Who Thinks Seriously About Kids in Their Early Twenties Anyway? “No Kids—We’ll Just Live for Ourselves,” They Had Agreed Ten Years Ago. And Now She Had to Take In a Child Who Wasn’t Her Own. There Was No Choice. John Would Never Let His Nephew End Up in a Children’s Home, and Victoria Couldn’t Bring Herself to Suggest It. She Knew She’d Never Love This Boy, or Be Able to Replace His Mum. The Boy Was Wise Beyond His Years, Clever and Perceptive, So Victoria Decided to Be Completely Honest with Him. “Will, where would you rather live—with us or in the children’s home?” “I want to live at home—by myself.” “But you can’t stay alone—you’re only seven. You have to choose.” “Then with Uncle John.” “Alright, you’ll come with us, but I must tell you something. I can’t be your mum, and I can’t love you the way you want, but I’ll take care of you—and you mustn’t be upset. Life with us will be better than in the children’s home.” Some of the formalities sorted, at last they could return home. Victoria figured, after that talk, she wouldn’t have to pretend to be a doting aunt—she could just be herself. Cooking, washing, helping with homework was fine, but pouring out her feelings was not. And little Will never forgot that he wasn’t loved—and that, if he behaved, he wouldn’t be sent away. At home, Will was given the smallest room, and Victoria immediately threw herself into transforming it for him—choosing wallpaper, furniture, décor—her favourite things. She let Will choose the wallpaper, but handled everything else herself. She spared no expense; she wasn’t stingy, just not fond of children. The room turned out beautifully. Will was happy! If only his mum could see it. If only Victoria could love him. She’s kind and good—she just doesn’t love children. Will often lay thinking about that before he fell asleep. He found joy in everything—a circus outing, the zoo, fun at the park—his delight was so sincere that Victoria began to enjoy these trips herself. She enjoyed surprising him, then basking in his reactions. That August, Victoria and John were supposed to go to the seaside, with a close relative taking Will for ten days. But at the last minute, Victoria changed her mind. She suddenly wanted Will to see the ocean. John was surprised, but deep down he was glad—he’d grown attached to the boy. And Will was almost happy! If only someone loved him. Never mind—he’d see the ocean! The trip was wonderful—the sea was warm, the fruit was sweet, everyone’s spirits were high. But all good things must end, and so did the holiday. Ordinary life resumed: work, home, school. But something in their little world had shifted—a hint of new joy, of hope, of something magical beginning. And then the miracle happened—Victoria came back from the seaside expecting a baby. How had it happened, after all these years of careful planning? She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell John, or decide everything herself? After Will’s arrival, she wasn’t sure John was truly committed to a child-free life. He loved spending time with Will, taking him to football matches, helping him with school. Victoria had faced one challenge; she wasn’t ready for another. She’d made her decision. Victoria was sitting at the clinic when she got a call from school—Will had been rushed to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Everything would have to wait. She rushed to the hospital—Will lay pale and shivering. Seeing Victoria, he burst into tears. “Victoria, please don’t go—I’m scared. Just for today, can you be my mum? Please—only for one day, I’ll never ever ask again.” He clutched her hand, sobbing as if his heart would break. Victoria had never seen him cry, except the day of the funeral. Now, he was inconsolable. Victoria pressed his hand to her cheek. “My boy, hang in there—a doctor will be here soon. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” How she loved him in that moment! This boy with the shining eyes—he was her world. Child-free? What nonsense. Tonight she would tell John about their coming baby. She made her decision then, as Will squeezed her hand in pain. Ten years passed. Today is almost a milestone for Victoria—it’s her 45th birthday. There’ll be guests and celebration, but for now, she sits with her coffee, swept away by memories. How quickly time has flown. Youth, young adulthood—gone. Now she’s a woman—a happy wife and mother of two beautiful children. Will is nearly eighteen; Sophie is ten. And she regrets nothing. Well—except one thing, deeply. Those words about not loving Will. How she wished he’d forget them, that they’d never hurt him. Ever since that day at the hospital, she’d tried to tell him as often as possible that she loved him, but she never dared ask if he remembered her first confession.

While Asking for Food at an Opulent English Wedding, a Young Boy Named Elliot Stands Frozen Elliot was ten years old. He had no parents. He could only remember that, when he was around two, Mr Bernard—a kindly homeless man living under a London bridge near Regent’s Canal—had found him floating in a plastic tub after a heavy rainstorm. The boy could not yet speak. He could barely walk. He cried until he lost his voice. Around his tiny wrist, he wore just one thing: —a tattered, braided red bracelet; —and a damp scrap of paper, faintly inscribed: “Please, let a kind-hearted person care for this child. His name is Elliot.” Mr Bernard had nothing: no home, no money, no family. Only tired feet and a heart that still knew how to love. Against all odds, he took the child and raised him however he could: stale bread, free soup, returned bottles. He often said to Elliot, “If you ever find your mother, forgive her. No one leaves a child without deep pain.” Elliot grew up among market stalls, Tube station entrances, and frosty nights under the bridge. He never knew his mother’s face. Mr Bernard told him only that, when found, the paper had a trace of lipstick—and a long, black hair tangled in the bracelet. He believed Elliot’s mother was very young…perhaps too young to raise a child. One day, Mr Bernard fell ill with pneumonia and was admitted to a public hospital. With no money, Elliot had to beg more than ever. That afternoon, he overheard talk of a lavish wedding at a manor near Windsor—a spectacle for that year. Hungry and parched, he decided to try his luck. He lingered shyly near the entrance. Tables were loaded: roast meats, fine pastries, chilled drinks. A kitchen porter spotted him, pitied him, and handed him a hot plate. “Stay here and eat quickly, lad. Don’t let anyone notice you.” Elliot thanked him and ate in silence, observing the room. Classical music. Tailcoats and sparkling dresses. He wondered, Does my mother live somewhere like this…or is she poor, like me? Suddenly, the master of ceremonies declared, “Ladies and gentlemen…here comes the bride!” Music changed. All eyes turned to the flower-draped stairs. She appeared. A flawless white dress. A serene smile. Long, rippling black hair. Magnificent. Radiant. But Elliot was transfixed—not by her beauty, but by the red bracelet on her wrist. Exactly the same. Same wool, same colour, same weathered knot. Elliot rubbed his eyes, stood up, and stepped forward, trembling. “Madam…” he whispered, voice breaking, “that bracelet… Is… are you my mother?” Silence swept over the room. Music played, but no one breathed. The bride stopped, glanced at her wrist, then looked into the child’s eyes. She knew that gaze. Her knees buckled. She knelt before him. “What’s your name?” she asked, trembling. “Elliot…my name is Elliot,” he answered, weeping. The master of ceremonies dropped his microphone. Murmurs rippled: “Is that her son?” “Could it be?” “Oh my God…” The groom, a composed gentleman, approached. “What’s happening?” he asked quietly. The bride broke down. “I was eighteen…I was pregnant…alone…with no support. I couldn’t keep him. I left him, but never forgot. I kept this bracelet all these years, hoping I’d find him again one day…” She clutched the child tightly. “Forgive me, my son…please forgive me…” Elliot hugged her in return. “Mr Bernard told me not to hate you. I’m not angry, Mum…I just wanted to see you again.” Her white dress stained with tears and dust. No one cared. The groom stayed silent. No one knew what he’d do. Cancel the wedding? Take in the boy? Pretend nothing happened? He approached… And instead of helping the bride to her feet, he crouched by Elliot’s side. “Would you like to stay and eat with us?” he asked gently. Elliot shook his head. “I just want my mum.” The man smiled. And wrapped them both in his arms. “Well then…if you’d like…from today, you’ll have a mother…and a father.” The bride looked at him, desperate. “Aren’t you angry with me? I hid my past from you…” “I didn’t marry your past,” he murmured. “I married the woman I love. And I love you even more knowing all you’ve endured.” This wedding stopped being grand. It ceased to be a society affair. It became sacred. Guests applauded, tears in their eyes. It was no longer just a union—but a reunion. Elliot took his mother’s hand, and then the man’s. There were no rich or poor anymore, no barriers or differences. Just a whisper in the child’s heart: “Mr Bernard…see? I’ve found her—my mum…”

Borrowed Happiness Anna was tending to her garden plot—a rare, early spring in England this year, with March not yet out but all the snow already melted. She knew the cold would return, but for now the sun was warm enough to coax her outside, propping up the sagging fence and patching the wood shed. She made plans—she’d get some chickens, maybe a piglet, a dog and a cat. Enough, she laughed to herself. She’d done her wandering, her playing. It was time to dig over the garden, to feel the earth like when she was a girl—shoes off, running barefoot across freshly turned, warm, soft soil. “We’ll go on living yet,” Anna said aloud, to no one in particular. “Excuse me?” Anna started. By the gate, a slight girl stood—mid-teens at most. She wore a plain grey coat, the sort Anna knew was given out at the local vocational colleges, flimsy shoes, tights too thin for the weather. “Far too early for those,” Anna thought, “She’ll catch her death. Those shoes barely have soles—rubbish.” The girl picked at the ground with her toes. “Hello,” Anna called, curtly. “Sorry, could I use your loo?” “Ah—go on, then. Straight ahead and round the corner.” Anna watched her scurry off. “Thank you! You’ve saved me. I’m looking for a room to rent—you don’t happen to have one, do you?” Anna blinked. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why do you need one?” “I wanted somewhere quiet, not a hostel. It’s wild there—boys everywhere, drinking and smoking.” “And what could you pay?” “Five quid a week. That’s all I’ve got.” “Come in, then. Go on.” “Can I use the toilet again, just quickly?” “Go ahead…” “What’s your name?” Anna asked, ushering her in. “Ollie,” squeaked the girl. “Well then, Ollie. What brings you here, really?” Anna said, fixing her in place with her gaze. “I… I just want a room…” “Don’t fib to me. Who sent you?” “No one. I came myself. You—are you Anna Samuels?” “That’s me, yes…” “You don’t recognise me, do you, Mum? It’s me, Ollie. Your daughter.” Anna sat ramrod-straight, her weathered face unmoving. “Ollie… my girl… Ollie…” “Yes, Mum! It’s me. Back at the care home, they never let me have your address—said it wasn’t allowed. But my teacher, Miss Stevens, helped. We found your name, and then your address—and here I am.” Anna sat in silence, tears streaking her cheeks. “Ollie, my girl… my little one…” “Mum, oh Mum,” Ollie sobbed, flinging her arms around Anna’s neck, “I searched for you so long, Mum. I wrote letters—they laughed, said you’d just abandoned me, gave me away. But I believed in you, Mum. I always believed.” Anna embraced her, rough hands holding tight to Ollie’s chunky-knit jumper—her girl, her daughter, her Ollie. For a long time, they just sat, neither wanting to break the spell. Later, Anna, recalling her Nan’s wisdom and her own hard years, bustled around—boiling water, steeping fennel, fussing over her foundling beauty. Ollie. Daughter. Life’s new purpose. She had a reason to live, a reason after all. God had pitied her. She wasn’t lost… The garden, a piglet, a new coat. There was money put aside. She’d thought she was ready for the end, but here was her daughter—her Ollie. *** “Mum?” “Mmm?” “Mum… I’m in love.” “Well now!” “He’s called Jack—he’s wonderful. He wants to meet you…” “I… I don’t know…” Anna thought—so soon, the happy days are over. What’s given is taken, too. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, my love. You’ve grown up so fast… I didn’t get enough time. Forgive me, Ollie.” “Mum! You mustn’t… You’re my mum, you know how much I love you, how long I searched… We’ll give you grandkids, Mum. You’re my mum, always.” Jack was sturdy, kind, dependable—a country lad. Anna approved. Times were hard—some went hungry while others’ dogs ate better than people. But Anna, Ollie, and Jack managed. Anna sewed well; when the factory closed, she joined a co-op, got on fine, dressed her girl and son-in-law as though they were royal. Jack was indefatigable—raised a fence, fixed the house, mended the shed. The little cottage thrummed with life, singing even more than when Ollie returned. Anna’s heart melted, thawed. At last, she wanted to live for real, to make up for lost and shameful years. Some nights, the old pain still caught her unawares… “Mum, are you alright? Does it hurt?” “No, sweetheart. Go to sleep, my darling.” “Mum, can I stay here with you?” “Of course,” Anna moved, making space so her daughter could nestle in beside her. Her little girl. Her heart near burst with love. So this was maternal love. Thank you, God, she thought. They had a wedding. The young couple stayed on. Anna blossomed, cheeks apple-pink, so even her workmates said she was all smiles now—Anna Samuels, of all people. “A grandchild, I reckon!” she whispered at lunch, anxious. “A lucky girl, that Ollie—Mum adores her.” A grandson was born—Anthony, named for Anna’s own mum. “A strict woman, but fair,” Anna would say, laughing, “What a little darling—I can hardly stand it!” She’d never held a newborn since Ollie, not in all those years. Holding Anthony, her heart drummed in her head—this was it: happiness. Life revolved around Anthony. The best and brightest. He wouldn’t budge from his granny. Jack built on, made the house big, gave Anna her own place in it—how could they do without her? He and his brothers started up a building firm. They even opened a hardware shop. Then—a new joy—a girl, Mary. Anna made her dresses, kitted her out pretty as a princess. Children’s laughter rang through the house. Things were good. Except the burning in Anna’s chest grew more frequent. “Mum, my darling, why didn’t you say anything? Where does it hurt?” “All’s fine, sweetheart, all’s well…” *** “…I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” “Doctor… That was my mother…” “I know. I’m very sorry.” *** “Ollie, love… It’s time. Forgive me. I lasted longer than you all expected. But you saved me, all those years ago. “Mum, please…” “Listen, darling… It’s heavy to say, but—I’m not really your mother. Sorry…” “Mum! Never say that, to anyone. You’re my mum. My only mum. Do you hear me?” “Yes, sweetheart. I hear you. There’s a diary, on my shelf. Forgive me, Ollie. I love you.” “I love you, too, Mum… Mum…” *** “Have something to eat, Ollie…” “Yes, Jack… In a minute… Go on without me.” Ollie sat in her mum’s room, reading her—her mother’s—notebook. There was her life, Anna’s: tough, ugly and, sometimes, happy. Her mum had been strict—Tony, a war widow, strict but fair. Anna, Annie, Annie-flower. She’d loved a wrong-un—life wild and reckless. Ended up with nothing in the end. No child, nothing but the old cottage. Doctors said to wait—it could go either way. She found faith, went to church, hoped. Then, a miracle. She’d thought: at least let me try, let me feel what it is to be a mum. She became Ollie’s mum, moved heaven and earth to make it true. Didn’t believe she deserved it, not until the end. Forgive me, dear God, for my theft—let me live to see my grandchildren, help my girl… She’d worried at first—that Ollie would discover the truth: a bureaucratic mix-up, not her birth mother. But fear faded. She just lived—a plain, English life. Believed at last: I’m worthy. Forgive me, my darling, for stealing you from your real mother. This is my stolen happiness… *** “Mum,” Ollie wept at the beautiful grave, “my dearest Mum. I hope you can hear me. I knew, I nearly always knew. They told me—my real Mum, Anne, Ivanova, I found her out of curiosity. She wanted nothing to do with me after all. You’re my real mum, and I thank God for that each day.” *** “Granny, was Granny Anna kind?” “The kindest, darling.” “And beautiful?” “The most beautiful. That’s why you’re called Anna too.” “Really? Was that your dad’s or your mum’s idea?” “Maybe both, darling. Your dad loved his Granny.” “Can she see me?” “Of course—she’s always watching, always helping.” “I love you, Great-Granny Anna,” says the little girl, laying a dandelion wreath on Anna’s grave. “And I love you, my dear,” whispers the birch tree, and the wind carries it far.