Ryan’s rose pot wasn’t just a plant—it was a sanctuary.
In its soil were his mother’s ashes, blooming each May into crimson reminders of love and loss. It stood
for memory, healing, and everything sacred she left behind.
When his estranged father, Larry, faked illness to reconnect, Ryan reluctantly opened his door—but not his heart.
Then one evening, he returned to find the pot shattered, the ashes scattered. An “accident,” Larry said. But some accidents rewrite everything.
The roses were more than petals and earth. They were her. And now, they were gone.
In that moment, forgiveness felt impossible. Because sometimes, what’s broken isn’t just ceramic—it’s trust, and time, and love once tenderly held.
