Chapter 2: The Envelope
Michael and Claire waited until the last mourner had left before opening the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper and a small photograph.
The photograph showed Margaret standing in the backyard of her home two summers earlier. She was wearing an old gardening hat and holding a basket of flowers.
The flowers were the same colors as the arrangement in the chapel.
White lilies.
Cream roses.
Pale-blue hydrangeas.
Claire’s eyes filled immediately.
“She picked them herself,” she whispered.
Michael unfolded the letter.
Their mother had written it months earlier, when she knew her illness was progressing.
She explained that the flowers were not chosen because they were fashionable. They were chosen because each one carried a memory.
The lilies reminded her of the small church where she and their father had married.
The cream roses reminded her of the garden their father had planted before he died.
The blue hydrangeas reminded her of the house where Michael and Claire had grown up.
At the bottom, Margaret had written:
When you see these flowers, I hope you don’t think about the day I left. Think about all the days I was here.
Michael sat down.
For the first time since the funeral began, he allowed himself to cry.
Claire placed her hand over his.
Neither noticed that the chapel door had opened.
Karen stood there.
She had returned for her handbag, which she had apparently forgotten beneath the last row of chairs.
She had heard enough.
Her expression changed, but only briefly.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
Michael looked at her.
“You didn’t ask.”
Karen looked toward the flowers.
“I still don’t understand the blue.”
Claire slowly turned toward her.
“You don’t have to understand it.”
That sentence landed harder than an argument would have.
Karen picked up her handbag.
“I was only giving my opinion.”
Michael folded his mother’s letter carefully.
“Some opinions are better kept private.”
Karen left without answering.
Outside, however, she did not immediately get into her car.
She stood beside the parking lot, staring through the chapel windows.
For years, Karen had believed that saying exactly what she thought made her strong.
She had never considered what it cost other people.
But she also wasn’t ready to admit that yet.
Inside, Michael placed the letter back inside the envelope.
Then he noticed something else.
At the bottom of the page was a sentence neither he nor Claire had seen at first:
Please take the flowers home. I want them in my garden.
Michael looked toward the arrangement.
The funeral home had already scheduled its removal for the following morning.
They had one night to figure out how to fulfill their mother’s final request.
