Every year on my birthday, a nameless bouquet arrived, sent by a high school boy I hardly knew. For 20 years, they came without fail, until this year, when their absence drove me to seek the truth. I was having tea with Jake, a gentle man I’d dated a few times, when I grew restless, checking the door. “Expecting someone?” he asked, curious. I told him about the flowers, a ritual since graduation, each bouquet stunning, always unsigned. “Every year?” he said, smiling. “I bet they don’t show today.”
We made a playful bet, but as night deepened, no flowers arrived. My heart sank. A knock came, but it was my neighbor, Mary, with a lost keychain. Jake laughed, saying, “Almost got me,” and left. I couldn’t sleep, questioning why the tradition ended. Last year’s courier had called, a clue I hadn’t pursued. I found the number, “Flower Shop,” and called. A man answered, recognizing my yearly mystery. I asked for the sender’s details, and after some reluctance, he sent an address. The next morning, Jake arrived with lilies and movie tickets, eager to surprise me, but I was set for a drive.
Jake joined me, talking about work and weather, while my thoughts were on the address—a small house with faded shutters and a garden of daisies and roses. I knocked, and Matthew opened the door, his quiet high school eyes softened by time. Jake said, “I’ll head back,” and left. Over coffee in Matthew’s warm kitchen, I asked, “Were you the one sending the flowers?” He nodded, admitting he’d loved me since school but was too shy to confess. He stopped, thinking I’d found love. “They were my birthday,” I said. “I missed them.” His smile was small but real. “I thought I was in the way,” he said. I reached out. “Never. Can we try now?” Our kiss, clumsy but true, turned 20 years of flowers into a new beginning.
