My grandfather, Thomas, brought my grandmother flowers every single Saturday for sixty years.
It wasn’t something grand or showy. Sometimes it was a bundle of wildflowers he picked on the way home. Sometimes elegant tulips wrapped in brown paper. Sometimes simple seasonal blooms from the market. But no matter what—he never missed a week.
He would wake up early, long before my grandmother stirred, quietly place the bouquet into her favorite glass vase, and set it on the kitchen table.
When she came down, she would always smile.
That was their ritual.
That was their love.
