Where the Daisies Grow

Daisy knew the moment she saw the coffin that forgiveness had come too late.

Daisy remained still, her eyes fixed on the casket as she wiped away a tear. The lifeless figure before her confirmed it—hope had died long before her mother’s body turned cold. Her chest tightened as numbness crept through her limbs. Once, everything had felt whole—until that tragic day.

The scent of roses pulled her back in time. Conversations around her softened and faded. She was again in a yellow polka-dot dress, sitting on the gray carpet of her mother’s flower shop, her favorite doll tucked at her side.

She was five again.

“Hey, Pookie Bear, do you want to put the last flower in the arrangement?” her mother asked, holding up a white-petaled daisy.

“Really?” Daisy sprang up and took the flower from her mother’s hand. Her mother guided her, placing it among the others.

“Beautiful,” her mother said, hugging her from behind. “Just like you.”

“How much longer will you be?”

“I have one more arrangement. Want to help me with it?”

Daisy’s eyes brightened. “Do you mean it?”

Her mother nodded. “Go to the refrigerator and get some greenery, daisies, yellow roses, and lavender.”

Daisy hurried to the floral cooler and returned with cold stems, brushing her arms. She climbed onto the wooden stool. Gently, her mother held her small hands—tilting stems, trimming edges, settling blossoms into place. Daisy beamed. She wanted to bring joy to people, just like her mother.

“Can we go for ice cream?” she asked, swinging her feet.

“I’m not sure,” her mother teased, hands on her hips. “Did we work hard enough?”

Daisy’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

Her mother laughed. “Of course we can, Pookie. We earned it.”

Daisy clapped her hands.

A gentle touch landed on her shoulder. The flower shop dissolved like mist, and Daisy found herself standing once more before the coffin.

“Daisy,” her brother whispered, “it’s time to take our seats.”

She walked toward her chair, but her cousin Maggie—expecting twins—stopped her with condolences.

“Thank you,” Daisy murmured, hugging her. Maggie’s hands rested protectively on her belly.

Daisy sank into her seat. For a moment, Maggie blurred, and all Daisy saw was her mother’s rounded stomach.

The funeral home faded.

The past rushed in.

Daisy sat beside her mother as she crocheted tiny blue booties.

“May I touch your tummy?” Daisy asked.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Her mother placed Daisy’s hand on her stomach.

It felt firm and strange—then a sudden thump beneath her palm made her gasp.

“Does it hurt?” Daisy asked. “When the baby kicks?”

“Sometimes,” her mother admitted, smiling. “He’s already strong. But it’s a good kind of hurt… it lets me know he’s there.”

A week later, Daisy stood in a hospital hallway beside her grandmother, nose scrunched at the sterile smell. Inside the room, her mother held a small blue bundle. Ned, her stepfather, stood proudly at her side.

“Daisy, go meet your baby brother,” her grandmother said gently.

“Come here, Pookie,” her mom said.

Daisy approached. Her mother lifted the baby. “Meet Justin.”

Daisy leaned closer. “He’s so tiny and pink. May I touch him?”

“Do you want to hold him?” her mother asked.

“Really?” Daisy's eyes grew brighter.

Her grandmother directed her into a chair and placed the baby in her arms. “Support his head.”

Justin opened his eyes and lifted a tiny hand, as if offering a shake. Daisy touched her finger on his.

“He’s strong,” she whispered. “Can he hear me?”

“Of course,” her mother said.

“Hi, Justin. I’m Daisy,” she whispered. “Your big sister.”

He yawned so wide she giggled. She pressed her cheek to his tiny head. “I love you,” she whispered.

A single piano note drifted into her awareness. Amazing Grace. The hospital faded as the present reformed around her. Daisy blinked, smiling faintly at the memory of her brother’s birth.

The song ended. The pastor read her mother’s favorite passage, then introduced Justin. Before her death, Mom had insisted he give the eulogy.

Deep down, Daisy was relieved. What would she say?

“Good morning,” Justin began, clearing his throat. “My mom was a strong, courageous, loving woman—from raising a daughter alone for six years to losing my father…” His voice trembled. “And then raising both Daisy and me…”

A horn tore through the chapel like a ragged blade. Daisy flinched.

In an instant, she was no longer in the pew—she was gripping a steering wheel.

She was fifteen again.

“Please, Ned,” Daisy pleaded, “let me drive you to the hardware store.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “You just got your learner’s permit today.”

“I need the practice. Please?”

He sighed, smiling. “Alright. Grab the keys.”

“Thanks, Ned.”

A few minutes later, Daisy eased the car out of the driveway.

“Safety check?” Ned asked. “Mirrors, seat belt—mine too?”

Daisy exhaled sharply. “Done.”

She smiled nervously at her reflection in the mirror.

Then—

Crash.

Spin.

Slam.

The airbag exploded against her face—sharp, suffocating. Semi-conscious, she turned her head, the smell of gasoline burning her nose.

“Ned? Ned, are you—”

Nothing.

Two weeks later, the tar-like guilt still clung to her stomach. Ned had been buried. Her mother drifted through the house like a shadow—silent, disconnected. She spoke to Justin. But Daisy felt every cold glance shoved her further away.

One morning, Daisy flipped pancakes on the stove. Justin waited for his mouse-shaped breakfast. Her mother entered, kissed Justin’s head, and went straight to the coffee pot, ignoring Daisy completely.

“Can I make you some pancakes?” Daisy asked softly.

“No. I’m fine.”

Daisy handed Justin his plate.

“Thanks, Daisy.”

“Anytime, Squirt.”

“Do you want syrup, Pookie?” her mother asked.

Daisy froze. “Mom—that’s my nickname.”

“Not anymore,” her mother said sharply.

“Mom… can we talk?”

Her mother traced the rim of her mug, then sighed.

“I feel like you’re upset with me,” Daisy whispered.

Her mother’s body stiffened.

“If I did something wrong, tell me and I’ll fix it.”

The mug slammed into the sink, shattering.

Justin ran from the room.

“You can’t fix it!” her mother screamed. “Ned is dead because of you! And I will never forgive you!”

Daisy stumbled back. “Mom… I’m sorry. The truck came out of nowhere. I didn’t see it.”

Her mother’s stare hardened. “Exactly.” Her mother turned away.

Daisy fled upstairs, collapsing onto her bed in sobs.

A soft knock came. Justin peeked inside.

“Daisy… are you okay?”

“No,” she whispered. “But don’t worry, Squirt. Mom and I will work it out.”

“Okay… Hey, Pookie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

He closed the door.

The memory dissolved, replaced by Justin’s voice at the podium.

“…and she loved being a florist,” he said. “I never caught the flower bug—but my sister did.”

He offered Daisy a small, knowing smile.

She returned one. Her best memories with her mother were among flowers—arranging, laughing, creating beauty together.

Later that afternoon, Daisy sat in Justin’s living room, staring at a small wooden box he had placed before her.

“Are you going to open it or keep staring at it?” he asked softly.

She opened the lid. An envelope rested on top—her name in her mother’s handwriting.

“Dear Pookie Bear—”

Daisy gasped. Her mother hadn’t called her that since the day in the kitchen.

Hands trembling, she read:

I was wrong to blame you for Ned’s death. I thought about calling so many times to ask for your forgiveness, but I couldn’t. I want you to have my flower shop…

By the time she finished, tears streamed silently down her face. Justin wrapped an arm around her as she lowered the letter to her knees. The heavy tar in her gut began to loosen.

She sifted through the box—keys to the flower shop, dried petals, a photo of her and her mother at the ice cream shop. She pressed the picture to her chest and closed her eyes.

For the first time in years, she felt something warm rising inside her.

She rose slowly, closing her fingers around the keys as if anchoring herself to something new.

Justin watched her carefully. “What now?”

Daisy looked down at the keys—small, worn, impossibly heavy with meaning.

“Now,” she whispered, “I start again.”