The Plant Grandma Left Me

One afternoon, a man in his sixties walked in and froze when he saw the plant by the register.

“That’s a rare one,” he murmured. “Hard to keep alive unless you really love it. Was her name Clara?”

My breath caught. “Yes.”

His eyes softened. “She saved my life once. I was seventeen, had nowhere to go. She let me sleep on her floor, fed me soup, told me to read books like meals. She said I’d be fine.”

From his coat pocket, he pulled out a slim notebook she had given him decades ago. Inside were pages filled with names and small kindnesses: Sharon — made me a sandwich. Tomas — laughed at my bad joke. Clara — saw me.

He pressed it into my hands and left, having finally delivered her message.

Sharing Her Legacy

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