One night, I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and stared at Karen’s name in my contacts.
My stomach twisted, but I pressed call anyway.
She answered on the third ring.
“What?” she said, already impatient.
“I… I just wanted to ask if I could take Grandma’s rosebush. The one in the back.
I’d like to replant it by the cottage.”
There was a pause. Then she scoffed.
“Roses? Take them, for all I care.
Just don’t bother me with this nonsense.”
Click.
That was the end of that conversation.
I reached out to the tenants, two women in their 30s named Mia and Rachel. They were kind, soft-spoken, and understood more about grief than I think Karen ever had.
“Of course,” Mia said when I explained.
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