Ryan’s Grief, Broken Trust, and the Rose That Held It All

Ryan mixed his late mother’s ashes into a rose pot, creating a sacred memorial. Each May, crimson blooms reminded him of her love. But when his estranged father Larry visited—under false pretenses—the rose was accidentally destroyed.

“I’m so sorry, Ryan,” Larry said, after knocking the pot over. Ryan, devastated, cried, “It had Mom’s ashes in it!”

Old wounds reopened. Larry’s absence during Rose’s final days still haunted Ryan. “She was all I had, and now you’ve thrown her away like trash,” he said, heartbroken.

Three years later, Ryan published a novel rooted in grief and forgiveness. New roses bloomed where the old ones died, nurtured by soil mixed with the last of his mother’s ashes.

When Larry passed from a heart attack, Ryan chose not to attend the funeral. Instead, he wrote: “I didn’t come today because I’m still learning how to forgive. But I am trying, Dad. I’m trying.”

As rain fell gently on his roses, Ryan whispered, “I’m working on it, Mom.”
Healing, slow but steady, had begun.