Every birthday for 20 years, a nameless bouquet arrived at my door, sent by a high school boy I scarcely knew. This year, their absence sparked a journey to uncover the truth. I was having tea with Greg, a polite man I’d dated a few times, when I grew anxious, glancing at the door. “Expecting someone?” he asked, curious. I told him about the flowers, a ritual since graduation, each bouquet different, always without a note. “Every year?” he said, grinning. “I bet they skip today.”
We made a playful bet, but as night fell, no flowers came. My heart sank. A knock sounded, but it was my neighbor, Faye, with a lost scarf. Greg laughed, saying, “Almost convinced me,” and left. I couldn’t sleep, wondering why the tradition broke. Last year’s courier had called, a rare clue. I found the number, “Flower Delivery,” in my phone and called. A man answered, recognizing me as the “yearly flower woman.” I asked for the sender’s details, and after some hesitation, he sent an address. I knew I had to go.
Next morning, Greg arrived with tulips and play tickets, eager to surprise me. I was set for a drive, and though I preferred to go alone, his insistence won. He talked about traffic and his dog during the ride, but my thoughts were on the address—a small house with faded shutters and a garden of daisies and lilies. I knocked, and David opened the door, his quiet high school eyes now softened by age. Greg stepped back, saying, “I’ll head out,” and left. Over tea in David’s cozy kitchen, I asked, “The flowers—were they from you?” He nodded, admitting he’d loved me since school but was too shy to speak.
The flowers were his silent confession, a tradition he stopped, thinking I’d moved on. “They were my birthday,” I said softly. “I missed them this year.” His small smile warmed me. “I thought I was in the way,” he said. I reached out. “Never. Can we try now—together?” He paused, uncertain, but when I kissed him, awkward yet honest, it felt like 20 years of unspoken love bloomed. That moment was worth every mile I’d driven to find him.
