To my shock, Mr. Sloan had left me his house—but only if I agreed to care for an elderly woman named Rose, who would live with me for as long as she wished. Despite my reservations, I accepted the condition, hoping the house and garden would help rebuild my career as a florist.
But soon, Rose’s demands grew increasingly unreasonable—she wanted steamed broccoli, specific tomato salads, and even late-night trips to the pharmacy. Still, I remained patient, telling myself I was helping someone in need, until one day, I stumbled upon a box of old photographs in the garage. Inside was a picture of a woman who looked eerily like me, holding a baby, next to a young Mr.Continue reading…
