Our Rose

It was just an ordinary afternoon when my husband and I wandered into a garden centre.

Tucked away in a neglected corner, we noticed a heavily discounted rose bush.

It looked nearly dead—every leaf had fallen, the stems brittle and bare. Most people would have walked right past it.

But we didn’t.

I still remember my husband crouching down, inspecting the lifeless-looking plant. He gently touched the stem and said,

“The roots are still alive. Let’s take her home. Who knows—maybe next year she’ll surprise us with a completely new colour.”

I smiled. We agreed without needing many words.

It wasn’t just about the rose—it was about us, and the way we always find common ground in the little things.

We planted her carefully in the softest patch of soil in our small rose garden, where the morning light reaches gently.

From that moment on, she became ours—something we looked after together, side by side.

Winter came. We tucked her in with straw and hoped she’d survive the frost.

Spring arrived. Then summer. But she didn’t get better.

She remained frail—covered in tiny green insects, leaves wilting, refusing to thrive.

Still, we visited her every single day. Quietly hopeful.

We sought advice from a gardener, tried natural treatments, changed her soil, and fed her with care.

It was slow. Sometimes disheartening.

But little by little, something began to change. She pushed out fresh green leaves. Her stems looked stronger. And then, one morning, we saw it—a bud.

And today… she bloomed.

Her colour is soft but vivid—far lovelier than we ever imagined. Not bold, not flashy—just quietly radiant. A flower that has known struggle.

We stood there, both of us a little emotional. This bloom wasn’t just a flower.

She was the result of time, patience, and gentle tending—just like love.

The sky this morning looked heavy. Grey clouds gathered above us, and the air was thick and still.

A storm is coming.

So, before the first raindrop fell, I brought out my watercolours and painted her.

It felt like the right thing to do—to preserve this fragile, beautiful moment.

To honour the journey we took together—not just with the rose, but with each other.

She isn’t just a plant we saved.

She’s a reflection of what we’ve grown between us: love that doesn’t rush, that doesn’t give up, that quietly keeps showing up—day after day.

And now, before the storm, she blooms.