Every Sunday, I bought flowers for my mother—even though she’d been gone for years. Grief became routine until the day I met Mirela at the cemetery. She brought sunflowers for her son.
We didn’t talk much at first. Shared loss didn’t need words. Over time, our quiet Sundays turned into conversations, coffee, and healing. I helped her find work. She reminded me how to hope again.
Our love didn’t arrive loudly. It grew gently—out of grief, kindness, and showing up.
Now I buy tulips and sunflowers.
Some love stories aren’t about beginnings. They’re about continuing.
