I thought Mr. Sloan, my grumpy old neighbor, lived to ruin my life — especially after he dumped dirt all over my prized rose bushes. But the morning I went to confront him, I learned he’d died overnight. And he’d left something behind… for me. At his will reading, I discovered he’d left me his house — on one condition: I had to take in and care for a sweet, fragile woman named Rose. I accepted. I needed the land for my flower business, and she seemed harmless.

But days later, I was running errands at dawn, preparing special meals, waking to midnight bells — Rose wasn’t so fragile after all.Then I found a box in the garage. Inside: an old photo of a woman who looked exactly like me holding a baby — next to a young Mr. Sloan. Scribbled on the back: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.” That baby… was me. Mr. Sloan was my father. Rose was my mother. They had given me up. And now, through this twisted plan, they had come back into my life. didn’t know how to forgive them. But I wanted to try. Because like the roses outside — we had bent in the storm. But we hadn’t broken.