Sloan had left me his house. But there was a condition. I had to take in and care for an elderly woman named Rose for as long as she wished. Confused but desperate to revive my failing florist career, I agreed. Yet caring for Rose became a daily challenge—she wanted perfectly steamed broccoli, oddly specific salads, and late-night pharmacy runs that strained every ounce of my patience. Still, part of me felt tied to her, even before I understood why.
That answer came in the most unexpected way. In the garage, buried beneath dusty tools and forgotten boxes, I found old photographs—one showing a young Mr. Sloan beside a woman who looked uncannily like me… holding a baby. When I confronted Rose, her eyes filled with tears. She told me the truth she had
