Faded Roses

The scent of roses used to mean joy.

Janet remembered that day clearly—her twelfth birthday—when their mother filled the small sitting room with fresh red roses from the market. They weren’t expensive, but to Janet, they were magic. Petals soft as dreams. Fragrance sweeter than cake. Their father had baked a crooked little vanilla sponge, and Tobi, only a toddler then, had waddled around with icing on his cheeks, clapping and laughing like he understood what birthdays were.

Back then, love was loud. Present. Whole.

But everything changed on that rainy Tuesday. The day the brakes failed. The day sirens wailed louder than her screams. The day Janet became an orphan and a mother in the same breath.

She was sixteen.

From then on, love meant something else—quiet sacrifices, empty stomachs, and patched clothes. It meant working until her fingers bled, smiling so Tobi wouldn’t see her cry, holding the weight of a family on shoulders that were still growing.

She never asked for thanks. Never expected applause.

She just wanted Tobi to have a life worth living.

But as the petals of her world fell, one by one, Janet never imagined that the very heart she fought to protect… would be the one to forget her.

And that the roses would one day fade. Alone.

Forever.