"Sweetie, I think you might be remembering wrong. Your grandma loved chrysanthemums when she was alive."
I remembered it clearly. My mother-in-law's favorite flower had always been chrysanthemums.
The very first time I met her, she'd taken me by the hand and led me out to the balcony to show off every variety she'd planted there. Her face had lit up as she told me each one was her treasure.
But the little boy shook his head with absolute certainty.
"My daddy said Grandma hated chrysanthemums. She thought they were bad luck because people only give them to dead people."
"Daddy told us we could only bring lilies to Grandma's grave. No other flowers allowed."
How was that possible?
My mother-in-law used to say that chrysanthemums were the noblest of flowers, blooming defiantly through frost and snow, full of dignity and backbone.
She'd even used a chrysanthemum as her profile picture.
Roy knew that better than anyone.
He would never have said something like that.
Unless this was a different person entirely?
I turned to Iris, choosing my words carefully.
"Could I see a photo of your husband and your mother-in-law?"
Iris blinked, seeming caught off guard by the request.
But she nodded politely, pulled her phone from her bag, and began scrolling.
"She passed so early that I never met her in person. I only have a few photos my husband sent me."
She talked as she scrolled, then held out the screen to show me a photo of an elderly woman.
In the picture, the woman wore a red coat, seated upright in a chair with a warm, gentle smile.
It was her. It was definitely my mother-in-law.
And I was the one who had taken that photo.
It was from Roy's and my engagement party.
Not long after I'd snapped it, she passed away. She never even made it to our wedding.
Iris swiped to the next image, pulling up a group photo.
"This is my husband with me and our son."
My heart lurched the moment I saw it.
It was Roy. My husband, Roy James.
He was wearing the blue button-down I'd given him, one arm around Iris, the other cradling the child. All three of them beaming, the picture of a happy family.
While I stood there staring at the photo, the little boy puffed out his chest proudly. "My daddy's a real hero, you know."
"See that scar on his hand? He got it saving someone's life. It took more than a dozen stitches!"
My gaze dropped to the unmistakable scar on the man's wrist, and a sharp ache pierced through me.
Of course I knew where that scar came from.
Five years ago, we'd gone to the beach on vacation. A wave caught me and dragged me under. He didn't hesitate for a second before diving in after me.
The rocks beneath the surface were razor-sharp. One sliced his wrist wide open, blood pouring out, staining the water red around us.
But he didn't care about the pain. He held on to me with everything he had, refusing to let go, nearly getting swept away himself.
Later, at the hospital, I'd cried the entire time they stitched him up. I even looked into finding the best surgeon to remove the scar.
He just shook his head and smiled.
"You're ridiculous. This scar is a symbol of our love. I'm keeping it."
"Every time I see it, it'll remind me how close I came to losing the most important person in my life. It'll remind me to never take you for granted."
And now, those same hands that were supposed to symbolize his love for me were wrapped around another woman, in another family's portrait.
I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and handed the phone back to Iris.
Then I looked at the little boy standing before me, the one who looked so much like Roy, and asked, "How old are you, sweetie?"
He tilted his head up and held out four fingers. "I'm four!"
Four years old?
That was impossible.
I stared at Iris, unable to hide my disbelief. "Your son is really four?"
Iris gave me an odd look, then nodded.
"Yes. He was born four years ago, in May."
