I never expected anything from my grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Sloan—especially not kindness. But after he passed away unexpectedly, I was shocked to learn he had left his house to me. There was just one unusual condition: I had to care for an elderly woman named Rose, who would live with me for as long as she wished. With my flower business struggling and my rental draining my savings, I agreed.
At first, Rose seemed sweet but soon her requests became constant—from carefully prepared meals to early morning errands. Though tiring, I tried to keep up. Then one day, I stumbled upon an old box of photos in Mr. Sloan’s garage. In one, a woman who looked just like me stood with a baby—and a much younger Mr. Sloan. On the back, the note read: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.” Questions rushed in. Could I really be the child in that photo?
Rose later confirmed the truth: she and Mr. Sloan were my birth parents. They had given me up in hopes of a better life, and he had spent years trying to find me. The house, the condition—it was all part of his way of reconnecting and making amends. In a letter, he apologized for everything and asked me to take care of Rose and myself, leaving behind no more secrets.
It was overwhelming, but in the end, I chose to try. Rose and I had both lost so much time—but we still had the chance to start again. What began as a strange inheritance became the beginning of healing, family, and forgiveness. The roses outside bent in the wind—but just like us, they didn’t break.