For Ryan, the rose plant on his windowsill was untouchable. It wasn’t just a flower — it was sacred.

He had blended some of his mother’s ashes into the soil, creating a living memorial in her honor.

Each May, the roses unfurled in rich crimson, and Ryan nurtured them as though they carried his mother’s very breath.

Until the day his estranged father’s careless hands knocked the pot to the ground, shattering it into pieces.

The roses always bloomed in May — not the month of her death, which was November, but in May, when she had planted them for the first time in the garden of Ryan’s childhood home.

Now 26, Ryan found something beautiful in that contrast — how life insisted on continuing in its cycles, even while death remained permanent.

He leaned over the pot that evening, carefully pressing his finger into the soil. Not too much water, never too dry. Balance mattered. Perfect.

The plant itself was simple — one pot, some soil, and sunlight streaming through his small apartment window. Yet that was enough to coax new buds into existence. One had just appeared, tiny and green but full of promise.

“Look, Mom,” he whispered, touching the bud gently. “Another one’s coming.”

Salem, his sleek black cat, brushed against his legs and purred as though in agreement. Ryan smiled faintly, scratching behind her ears until she rewarded him with a soft meow.

His phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand. He ignored it once, but when it vibrated again, he sighed and picked it up. His father’s name lit up the screen.

Ryan’s thumb hovered over the decline button. His instinct was to silence it, but guilt — or maybe the echo of his mother’s voice urging kindness — made him swipe to answer.

“Hello?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

“Ryan? It’s your dad.”

Six years had passed since Rose’s death, and yet he and Larry still spoke like distant strangers. His mother had been their bridge, their translator. Without her, every word between them felt strained. They lived in silence broken only by obligatory holiday greetings or the rare text message.

The anger still lived inside Ryan — hot and unrelenting — every time he remembered his father’s empty chair during those final weeks in the hospital. While Rose lay dying, Larry had sought comfort in a bar instead of her bedside. Some betrayals, Ryan had long decided, could never be forgiven.

“Hey, Dad,” Ryan said stiffly, leaning against the windowsill. “What’s going on?”

“Not much good,” Larry admitted, his voice unusually weak. “I’m a little under the weather. Nothing serious, but the doctor says I shouldn’t be alone for a few days.”

Ryan closed his eyes. It was finals week at the library where he worked — the busiest time of the year. His evenings were meant for his writing, for the novel he’d been laboring over for two years.

“Can’t Uncle Mike help you?”

“He’s away on a fishing trip. Look, son, I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice. Just a few days.”

Ryan glanced at the rose plant. What would his mother want him to do?

“Fine,” he muttered at last. “But my apartment is small. I have routines. Boundaries. You’ll need to respect them.”

“Of course,” Larry said quickly, relief evident. “Thank you, Ryan. I’ll be on the afternoon bus.”

Ryan hung up and exhaled, already regretting his decision. Salem hopped onto the windowsill, brushing his hand.

“Looks like we’re having company,” Ryan told her.

When his father arrived, Ryan noticed how old he looked — or perhaps he was only now seeing it. The lines around his eyes had deepened, his dark hair replaced by gray.

“Nice place,” Larry said, setting his bag down. “Cozy.”

“You’ll sleep on the pull-out couch,” Ryan replied, brisk. “Bathroom’s there. Kitchen’s over there. I work until six.”

“Still at the library?”

“Yes.”

Silence filled the room until Larry cleared his throat. “How’s the writing coming along?”

Ryan blinked. “It’s… fine.”

“Your mom always said you had a gift.”

Ryan’s chest tightened at the mention of her. “There’s soup in the fridge. Help yourself. I need to feed Salem.”

He retreated to his room, where the rose plant glowed in the evening sun. He stroked one of its leaves gently.

“Just a few days,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Mom.”

But his father didn’t behave like a sick man. By the next day, Larry was out grocery shopping and cooking full meals. The day after that, he’d gone to a movie. By the third, Ryan found a note on the counter: “Gone to catch the sunset at the beach. Back by 7. Sorry! :)”

Ryan crumpled the paper in his fist, anger sparking hot. He’d upended his schedule, sacrificed precious writing time — for this?

When Larry came home, flushed from the sea air, Ryan confronted him.

“You’re not sick at all, are you?”

Larry shifted uncomfortably. “I might have… exaggerated.”

“Why would you lie to me?” Ryan snapped.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed otherwise. I just wanted to spend time with you. And maybe enjoy the city a little.”

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have said yes?”

Ryan’s silence was answer enough.

The dam broke then. Ryan unleashed years of rage, recounting how his father had abandoned Rose when she needed him most, how he’d chosen bars and poker over sitting with her in the hospital.

His father’s eyes filled with regret. “I’m lonely, Ryan. The house is empty. Everyone remembers me only as Rose’s husband or Ryan’s dad. I just… wanted to be with you.”

Ryan turned away. “You should have been honest. Leave tomorrow.”

“Ryan—”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

The next day, Ryan worked a late shift. By the time he came home, exhaustion clung to him. He longed only for peace — for Salem and the rose.

But when he entered his room, his world collapsed.

His father stood by the trash can, sweeping shards of terra cotta. Among the debris lay the broken stems of the rose.

“No,” Ryan whispered, his knees weak. “What did you do?”

“I was opening the window,” Larry stammered. “I knocked it over. I’m so sorry.”

Ryan shoved him aside, clawing through the trash until his hands closed around the dirt — dirt that held his mother’s ashes. Now mixed with wrappers and garbage.

“Do you even understand? That wasn’t just a plant. That was Mom.”

Larry paled. “I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t. You never asked. You never noticed. She was all I had, and you threw her away like nothing.”

Tears blurred Ryan’s eyes as he clutched the broken stems. “Get out. Now.”

His father tried to explain, tried to defend himself, but Ryan’s heart was stone.

Later, alone, Ryan salvaged what little soil he could and replanted the damaged stems in a smaller pot, though he knew they wouldn’t survive.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered, his tears soaking the soil.

Three years passed. The salvaged rose had died, but Ryan built a small balcony garden filled with new plants. He had mixed what soil he’d saved with fresh earth, and each May, the roses bloomed again. Not the same, but still beautiful.

He’d also finished his novel, published by a small press. It wasn’t life-changing, but it was something.

Then came the call: his father had died of a heart attack. The funeral was on Saturday.

Ryan didn’t go. Instead, he sat at his desk and wrote a letter he’d never send — a letter confessing his anger, his grief, and his slow, halting steps toward forgiveness.

Outside, the spring rain fell gently on the roses, and Ryan whispered to the photograph of his parents he’d placed beside them:

“I’m working on it, Mom. I’m working on it.”