I used to think my grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived just to ruin my life. So when I saw a mound of dirt dumped right on top of my rose garden, I stormed over, ready for war—only to find out he’d died the night before. A heart attack. All my anger drained away, replaced by confusion and something I couldn’t name. Then his lawyer showed up, saying Mr. Sloan had left me his house. On one condition: I had to take care of an elderly woman named Rose.

I didn’t understand it, but I agreed. My rental was expensive, and Mr. Sloan’s garden was still in bloom—perfect for rebuilding my ruined florist business. At first, Rose was sweet, if a bit demanding. Tomato salads, warm milk at 3 a.m., migraine pills at dawn. I brushed it off. What harm could one old woman do?

But everything changed when I found a dusty box in the garage. Inside was a photo of Mr. Sloan, a young woman who looked just like me, and a baby. On the back: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.” I froze. My girl?

Rose admitted it all that night. She and Mr. Sloan were my birth parents. They gave me up when they were too young, too scared. He spent years trying to find me.

His letter said he was proud of me. That he’d watched me grow strong from across the yard. And he asked for forgiveness.

I didn’t know how to forgive yet.

But I wanted to try.