Every Sunday at noon, a bouquet appeared on my porch with an unsigned note: “Thank you for raising my son.” I only had one child, and the message made no sense. By the fourth week, I stopped bringing the flowers inside and started waiting by the window.Every Sunday at noon, flowers appeared on my porch.The first time, I assumed a delivery driver had messed up. Wrong house, wrong mom, wrong everything.A small bunch of white lilies sat by the mat with a folded card tucked inside.”Thank you for raising my son. I’ll always be grateful.”No name. No number. Nothing else.I had one son. Noah. Twenty-four years old, finishing grad school, too smart for his own good. I had carried him. I had pushed through the pain and the panic and the prayers that felt like bargaining.

So who was thanking me for raising their son?The next Sunday, more flowers came.Different bouquet, same handwriting, same message, like it was a ritual.I sent Noah a picture.He called immediately. “Mom, no. That’s creepy.”I thought it was a mistake. But it’s the second week.”Then stop touching them,” he said. “Call someone. Put up a camera.”I stared at the flowers in my kitchen sink.”They’re just flowers,” I told him, but my voice did not sound sure.By the third Sunday, I stopped telling myself it was harmless.On the fourth Sunday, I waited.Noah was home that weekend, and he hovered behind me.”If she shows up, you don’t go out alone,” he said.”I’m not helpless,” I replied.