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. “Just let us know when you’re coming.”
A woman talking on the phone while holding a cup of coffee | Source: Pexels
The day I returned to Grandma’s yard, it felt… wrong. Not because of the tenants. They were lovely. But the house didn’t feel like hers anymore. The energy had shifted. It was colder and distant. Even the wind felt unfamiliar, like the house no longer recognized me.
The rosebush stood in the same corner, near the white fence, just as proud as ever. I dropped to my knees, tugged on my gardening gloves, and whispered, “Alright, Grandma. I’m here.”
A woman working in garden | Source: Pexels
The soil was hard and dry. Every time I pushed the spade down, it fought me. I could hear birds in the distance, the rustle of leaves. Sweat trickled down my back as I dug deeper, hands aching.
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