I used to think Mr. Sloan, my grumpy old neighbor, existed solely to ruin my peace. If I so much as sneezed near his fence, he’d find a way to make it my fault. But nothing prepared me for the day I walked out with coffee in hand and saw what he’d done to my roses.

My garden was my pride. My livelihood. I ran a little floral business from home—wedding bouquets, birthday arrangements, sympathy lilies. Those roses were in demand, especially that summer. Brides wanted “garden-fresh, vintage blush,” and mine were the talk of the suburbs.

But that morning? A mound of dark, ugly dirt sat smack in the middle of my rose bed.

I blinked, then choked on my coffee.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Of course I knew who did it. Harold Sloan—the scowling retiree next door who had made pettiness an Olympic sport. He once reported me for using a battery-powered leaf blower at 9:15 a.m. because it “disrupted the birds.”

Fuming, I stomped toward his house, ready to give him a piece of my mind. But then I saw unfamiliar cars out front and Mrs. Pearson from the next street standing in her robe.

She looked at me gently. “Linda… I’m so sorry. Harold passed away last night. Heart attack.”

My anger evaporated. I just stood there, stunned, the image of my ruined roses suddenly blurred by something heavier.

Before I could even process it, a man in a crisp suit approached.

“Miss M.? I’m James H., Mr. Sloan’s attorney. He’s named you in his will. You’ll need to be present after the funeral.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“I am. You’ll understand when we read it.”

I had no idea what kind of posthumous prank Sloan was planning, but I wouldn’t put it past him to haunt me with paperwork.

At the funeral, I sat in the back, watching the casket with a stomach full of knots. I kept remembering our arguments. The time he let his sprinklers run at 3 a.m., soaking my garden. Or when he trimmed his hedge just to dump the clippings on my lawn. He was impossible.

So why me?

Afterward, the lawyer led me to a small side room, where a frail, elderly woman sat by the window.

“Linda, this is Rose D. Mr. Sloan’s final wishes concern the both of you,” he began. “He has left you his entire property.”

“What?”

“Under one condition,” he added smoothly. “You must take in Mrs. Rose and care for her. She is to live in the home for as long as she wishes.”

I gaped at him. “Wait—you want me to be her… what? Nurse? Why would I—?”

“If you decline,” he said, “you forfeit the house.”

I glanced at Rose. She smiled so sweetly, hands folded in her lap.

“We’ll be good company, won’t we, dear?”

My mind spun. My current rent was eating me alive. My garden was ruined. But Sloan’s backyard—his rose beds—were impeccable. With the right work, I could revive my wedding orders. Rebuild.

So I nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

The first few days were fine. Quiet. Manageable.

Then came the broccoli.

“Sweetheart,” Rose called sweetly one evening, “just lightly steamed broccoli. No butter, please—my stomach.”

Next morning, it was tomato salad. Peeled. Matchstick-cut.

Then came the 3 a.m. bell ringing for warm milk. The 4 a.m. complaint about radiator sounds. The 5 a.m. emergency for migraine pills—which I biked to town to retrieve in the dark.

When I got home, soaked and shivering, she was asleep.

“I brought the pills,” I whispered.

Rose blinked lazily. “Oh… sleep really is the best medicine, isn’t it?”

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I buried myself in garden work and looked for a watering can in Sloan’s garage.

That’s when I found the box.

Old, dusty, almost forgotten. Inside: black-and-white photographs. One in particular made my breath hitch.

A woman—young, soft-eyed—holding a baby. Beside her stood a young Harold Sloan. On the back, faded writing:

“Rose and my girl. August 1985.”

No. It couldn’t be. The woman… looked exactly like me.

I nearly dropped the photo.

“Found the old box, did you?” Rose’s voice floated in from the doorway.

I turned sharply. “This… this is you?”

She nodded. “Back when things were different.”

“Who’s the baby?”

Her face softened. “That was… our daughter. Mine and Harold’s.”

The words struck me like thunder.

“I grew up in foster care,” I whispered. “My mom left me when I was a baby.”

Rose sat slowly, like the air had thickened. “Harold spent years trying to find you. He never forgave himself for giving you up. He wanted to tell you so many times. But he was afraid… that you’d hate him.”

“Why didn’t he just say something?”

“Because he was proud. Stubborn. And ashamed.”

She handed me an envelope. My name on it. I opened it with shaking fingers.

“Linda,
I told myself I was protecting you by staying away. But I see now that was just fear.
Watching you out in that garden… You reminded me of her. Of Rose. Of the strength I abandoned.
I’m sorry for the dirt. I knew you’d find the photos. And I hoped, one day, you’d understand.
Take care of her. Take care of you.
Love,
Dad”

Tears hit the page before I could stop them.

“I don’t know how to forgive you,” I whispered.

“I know,” Rose replied gently. “But we can try.”

And we did.

We rebuilt the garden together. I fixed her tea and she taught me the names of roses I’d never known. We sat on the porch at dusk, watching the blooms sway in the breeze.

Two women. Two lifetimes’ worth of grief and grace.

And outside, the roses bent—but never broke.

Just like us.