When I finally composed myself, I slipped the papers back inside, zipped the box into my backpack, and turned to the rosebush.
“I’ll take you with me, too,” I whispered, brushing the petals. “Let’s go home.”
I carefully dug out the rest of the roots, wrapping them in burlap and tucking them into a plastic bin. My hands were shaking, but not from exhaustion.
This was something else. Hope. After so many months of bitterness and helplessness, I finally had something to hold onto.
Back at our little rental cottage, Mom was in the kitchen, rinsing dishes when I walked in.
Her hair was tied up, and she looked tired, but she smiled when she saw me.
“You get the rosebush?” she asked, drying her hands.
“I got more than that,” I said quietly, pulling the box from my backpack and setting it gently on the table.
She gave me a confused look, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she sat down. I opened the lid and handed her the letter.
As she read, her fingers trembled. Her eyes scanned each line, slowly at first, then more urgently.
When she reached the last sentence, her lips parted.
She placed the letter down with care and stared at the papers underneath.
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