The Flowers That Kept Appearing

Every Sunday, right at noon, flowers showed up on my front porch.

The first time it happened, I assumed the florist had made a mistake. Maybe they mixed up the address. Maybe someone ordered them for another house down the street.

A small bouquet of white lilies rested beside the doormat, with a folded note tucked between the stems.

The message was short.

“Thank you for raising my son.”

There was no name. No phone number. Nothing.

I only had one child.

My son Noah.

And I was very certain I had raised him myself.

The Second Bouquet

The following Sunday, another bouquet appeared.

Different flowers.

Same handwriting.

Same message.

“Thank you for raising my son.”

This time the uneasiness started to creep in.

I snapped a photo and sent it to Noah.

“Is this some strange joke you’re playing?”

He called me almost instantly.

“Mom, no,” he said. “That’s honestly kind of creepy.”

“It happened last week too,” I admitted.

He grew serious.

“Then stop touching them. Get a camera. If someone is leaving them, we need to know who.”

I looked down at the flowers sitting in my kitchen sink.

“They’re just flowers,” I said.

But even to my own ears, my voice sounded uncertain.