I had already lived a lifetime on the other side of hope when the yellow roses arrived, fifty six of them, bright as small suns against the gray of my kitchen. I was not a woman anyone sent flowers to anymore. Yet there they were on what should have been my fifty sixth anniversary, and there, hidden among their perfect petals, was the ugliest paper rose I had ever seen, marked with a single trembling letter: J. That was when the past I’d been told, the past I’d built my whole life around, began to unra… Continues…
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