Every mother expects flowers on Mother’s Day.
I’d sent a bouquet to my mom and mother-in-law, but there would be no flowers for me. For years my husband and I had tried to have a baby, but we had never been able to conceive. Mother’s Day was hard.
I grabbed my keys to run some errands. “Please, God, help me through this day. Help me feel loved in spite of…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Driving down the street I saw one happy family after another. A man and two children came out of a flower shop with an armful of blossoms. Some woman was going to feel awfully loved. Why shouldn’t I have flowers too? I thought. I pulled over and got out. I’d buy some myself.
The bell over the door jingled as I entered the shop. I marched up to the largest bouquets, but when I saw the attached Mother’s Day cards my boldness evaporated. I hurried back to my car.
I climbed in and reached out to close the door. A man appeared. He was wearing a shirt with the shop’s logo and holding a bouquet of roses. “For you.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “There must be some mistake.”
He shook his head. “No mistake. They are for you.”
He thumbed in the direction of a delivery truck parked nearby. “Left over from my run. They’re yours.” He pressed the bouquet into my arms before I could protest and walked back to his truck.
I cradled the roses. I was loved—by the one who never forgets me, no matter what day it is.
