I always thought my grumpy neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived to make my life miserable — especially the morning I found dirt dumped all over my prized roses. Furious, I was ready to confront him, only to learn hours later that he’d passed away from a heart attack. At his funeral, his lawyer shocked me: Sloan had left me his house. The catch? I had to take in an elderly woman named Rose and care for her.

At first, Rose seemed sweet but demanding — from broccoli steamed just right to late-night trips for medicine. Exhausted, I stumbled upon an old box in Sloan’s garage. Inside were faded photos, one of a young woman who looked just like me, holding a baby, beside a young Mr. Sloan. On the back, it read: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.” My heart raced — could the baby have been me?

When I confronted Rose, she admitted the truth: she and Sloan were young and broke, and they had given their baby up for adoption. Sloan had spent years searching and had recognized me as his daughter. Rose handed me a letter from him, confessing his regrets and asking me to care for her — my mother — while hoping one day I could forgive them both.

Tears blurred the words as the truth sank in. After a lifetime of believing I was abandoned, I finally knew where I came from. I told Rose, “I don’t know how to forgive you yet… but I want to try.” We held hands, two women bound by love, loss, and a second chance. Outside, the roses swayed in the wind — bent, but unbroken. Just like us.