Theresa remained standing in the same place while her hands instinctively lifted as if she were about to smooth a leaf or brush dust from a petal, yet there were no leaves and no flowers left to touch. Only torn roots lay in the soil like silent witnesses.
She had planted those roses twenty years earlier, each one grown carefully from a cutting her mother had brought from an old garden in Virginia long before illness took her life. After her mother died the scent of the roses became a living memory that whispered through the garden every morning.
She could still hear the voice that once said gently, “Remember this, Theresa, a rose grows only where it is loved.”
Now the remains of those bushes were piled beside the wooden shed where Franklin stored his tools. The heap contained dried leaves, broken stems, and the beloved variety she called Golden Heritage, the bush that had bloomed the very year her mother passed away.
“You must have lost your mind,” she said quietly while staring at the pile of ruined branches. “Why would you do this.”
Franklin shrugged with casual indifference.