The Rose on the Windowsill
For Ryan, the rose plant sitting on his windowsill wasn’t just a plant. It was a piece of his heart. He had mixed some of his mother’s ashes into the soil, turning the pot into a living memory of her. Every May, deep red roses bloomed, and he cared for them like they were her breath, her voice, her spirit still alive with him.
But one day, everything changed. His father—who Ryan hadn’t spoken to properly in years—accidentally knocked the pot over. And just like that, everything sacred was shattered.
The roses always bloomed in May. Not in November, the month his mom, Rose, passed away, but in May—the same month she planted them long ago in their family garden. Ryan, now 26, thought it was poetic. Even though death was permanent, the flowers kept returning every year, like life refusing to stop.
He knelt beside the pot that morning, gently pressing his finger into the soil. Just like she taught him. Not too wet. Not too dry. He smiled. Perfect.
The plant didn’t need much—just a little water, sunlight, and care. One new bud was growing now—small, green, but full of promise.
“Look, Mom,” he whispered, touching the bud like it was gold. “Another one’s coming.”
Salem, his black cat, rubbed against his legs, purring loudly. Ryan bent down to pet her, scratching behind her ears. She meowed, like she was saying, “Good job.”
Just then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Ryan ignored it. It buzzed again. With a sigh, he checked the screen.
His father’s name.
His thumb hovered over the “Decline” button. But some feeling—maybe guilt, or the voice of his mother whispering, “Be kind, Ryan,”—made him answer.
“Hello?” he said flatly.
“Ryan? It’s your dad.”
Six years had passed since his mom died, and they still sounded like strangers. Rose used to be the bridge between them. She spoke both their languages—Ryan’s quiet love, Larry’s loud pride. After she was gone, silence filled the space between them, broken only by awkward holiday calls and cold birthday texts.
Ryan had chosen the distance. He barely answered calls. He kept everything short. His father’s biggest sin? Not being there when it mattered. Not sitting by Rose’s hospital bed. Not holding her hand as she slipped away. That kind of hurt never stopped burning.
“Hey, Dad,” Ryan said, leaning against the windowsill and looking out at the city. “Everything okay?”
“Not really,” Larry replied, his voice rougher than usual. Ryan stood straighter. “I’m feeling a little sick. Nothing serious,” Larry added quickly, “but the doctor says I shouldn’t be alone for a few days.”
Ryan closed his eyes. The library where he worked was packed—finals week. He’d planned to write at night, finally finish the novel he’d been working on for two years.
“Can’t Uncle Mike help you?”
“He’s on a fishing trip. Look, son, I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. Just a few days. Please.”
Ryan looked over at the rose plant. The sacred soil. His mother’s ashes. What would she do?
“Fine,” he said. “But Dad, my place is small. I have routines. And boundaries. I need you to respect them.”
“Of course,” Larry said. Relief filled his voice. “I’ll catch the afternoon bus. Take a taxi from there. Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan hung up and groaned. Salem jumped on the windowsill, nudging his hand.
“Well,” he said to her, “looks like we’re having a guest.”
Larry arrived looking older. Gray hair, deeper lines around his eyes. Maybe it had happened slowly, or maybe Ryan had just never looked closely.
“Nice place,” Larry said, dropping his bag in the small living room. “Cozy.”
“You’ll sleep on the couch. Bathroom’s down the hall. Kitchen’s that way. I work until six,” Ryan explained coldly.
“Still at the library?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Then Larry cleared his throat. “How’s the writing going?”
Ryan blinked. Surprised. “It’s going… okay.”
“Your mom always said you had talent.”
Ryan’s heart tightened. “There’s soup in the fridge. I need to feed Salem.”
He escaped to his bedroom. The rose plant stood in the golden evening light. He touched its leaves softly.
“Just a few days,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Mom.”
Larry didn’t seem that sick. In fact, he was energetic. Too energetic.
Ryan came home the next day and found groceries in the kitchen.
“You had nothing but microwave dinners,” Larry said, already making stew.
The next day, Larry saw a movie down the street.
Then came the note:
“Gone to catch the sunset at the beach. Back by 7. Sorry! :)”
Ryan crumpled the paper, jaw tight. Was this some kind of vacation to him?
When Larry returned, cheeks pink from the sea air, Ryan snapped.
“You’re not even sick, are you?”
Larry looked guilty. “I may have exaggerated.”
“You lied to me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t say yes otherwise,” Larry admitted. “I wanted to see you. Spend time. Have a few good days.”
“You should’ve just said that.”
“Would you have agreed?”
Ryan didn’t answer. He scoffed.
“You want the truth? When Mom was sick, I was there every day. Holding her hair when she vomited. Lying to her that everything would be fine. You? You were out drinking and gambling like nothing was wrong. She asked for you, you know. She couldn’t even breathe and she kept whispering your name.”
His voice cracked.
“So no. I wouldn’t have said yes. Because after she died, I had nothing left to say to you.”
Larry looked down, his voice small. “I’m lonely, Ryan. The house is empty. Everyone still calls me ‘Rose’s husband.’ Or ‘Ryan’s dad.’ I needed to get away. I’m sorry.”
Ryan felt a flicker of pity. Then the anger took over again. “You should’ve told me the truth. I’m going to bed. You can leave tomorrow.”
“Ryan—”
“Good night, Dad.”
The next day, Ryan left early for his late shift. He was furious. He snapped at students. He shelved books in the wrong place. His head ached.
When he got home, the apartment was quiet. Maybe he left, Ryan thought.
But then he heard movement in his room.
“Dad?” he called.
“In here,” came the voice, soft and nervous.
Ryan stepped into his room—and froze.
His father stood by the trash can, broom in hand, sweeping up the broken rose pot. Inside the garbage were stems, petals, soil… ashes.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Ryan shouted.
“I’m so sorry,” Larry stammered. “I tried to open the window. It was stuffy. I didn’t see the pot… My elbow—”
Ryan ran to the trash, digging with shaking hands. Leaves. Roots. Soil.
Her ashes.
“You don’t understand,” he gasped. “That soil had Mom’s ashes in it!”
Larry’s face turned pale. “What? Ryan—I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t! You never asked! That rose was all I had left of her. Every time it bloomed, it was like she was still here!”
“It’s just a plant—”
“No, it’s not!” Ryan exploded. “You never stayed to see what was important to me. You weren’t there when she was dying! And now you’ve thrown her away like garbage!”
“I loved her,” Larry said.
“Then where were you when she cried for you at three in the morning? When she couldn’t breathe and begged for you? After she died, you ran away. And now this.”
Ryan held the broken pieces of the rose in his hands. “I want you gone. Now.”
Larry nodded slowly. “I’ll pack my things.”
Ryan didn’t watch him leave. He sat on the floor, picking out the bits of soil. He found a small pot in the kitchen and planted what he could. The rose probably wouldn’t survive. But he tried anyway.
He pressed his fingers into the dirt. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “I should’ve protected you.”
Three years later…
Ryan finished his novel. It was about grief, forgiveness, and family. A small publishing house accepted it. He didn’t quit his job at the library, but it was a start.
He moved into a bigger apartment, one with a real balcony. He planted a garden full of flowers. The original rose died, but he mixed the last of the sacred soil into new pots. Each May, red roses bloomed again.
Then, on a quiet Tuesday, Uncle Mike called.
“Your father’s gone, Ryan. Heart attack. It was sudden.”
The funeral was Saturday. “Everyone’s hoping you’ll come.”
Ryan said thank you and hung up. He didn’t feel much. Just… empty.
On Saturday morning, he sat at his desk, suit still hanging in the closet. Texts buzzed from cousins, but he ignored them.
He opened his laptop and began to write:
Dear Dad,
I’m not at your funeral today. I should be, but I’m not. Maybe that makes me a bad son. But I learned how to be absent from the best.
I spent three years angry at you. Three years blaming you for breaking something precious to me. But now I see—you didn’t just break a pot. You broke a wall I’d built around her memory. You made me realize… she’s not in the ashes. She’s in me.
She’s in the way I arrange books by color. In the way I smile when it rains. In the flowers I keep on the table. And yes… she’s in you too.
I didn’t come today because I’m still learning how to forgive. But I am trying.
Your son,
Ryan
Tears streamed down Ryan’s face. Outside, it had started to rain—soft and warm. He stepped onto the balcony, past pots of blooming roses.
On the windowsill sat a new rose plant. A little soil inside still held the last of his mother’s ashes. Next to it, a photo: his mother and father on their wedding day, young, laughing, full of dreams.
“I’m working on it, Mom,” he whispered to the rain. “I’m working on it.”
