I was ten when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking ballet lessons for four months, and the school was giving its yearly performance. As a member of the beginners' chorus group, I was surprised to hear my name called out at the end of the show along with the leading dancers and to find my arms full of red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that stage, seeing my father's big smiles.
Those roses were the first of many bunches accompanying all the milestones in my life. Getting all those roses was wonderful, but they brought a sense of embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but I also felt they were too much for my small achievements.
Not for my father. He did everything in a big way. Once, when mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen. His behavior often left us without money for other more important things. Sometimes I would be angry with him.
Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning father furthered my suffering by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bunch of flowers, bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. But my best friend, Jenny, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that."
As the years passed, other occasions—birthdays, awards, graduations—were marked with Dad's flowers. Those flowers symbolized his pride, and my success. As my fortunes grew, my father's health became worse, but his gifts of flowers continued until he died. I covered his coffin with the largest, reddest roses I could find.
Often during the dozen years since, I felt an urge to buy a big bunch to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.
Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband and my two daughters were away. My 10-year-old son, Tommy, had run out earlier with a "see you later". So I was surprised to see Tommy at the door. "Forgot my key," he said. "Forgot your birthday too." He pulled a bunch of roses from behind his back.
"Oh, Tommy," I cried. "I love flowers!"
