Flowers Bring Joy
Autumn was fading, the air growing crisper as the world braced for winter’s chill. The last stubborn leaves clung to the branches, but most had already drifted away. Autumn was packing its bags, but not without one final flourish of colour.
«The last blooms of the season—Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums—are saying their goodbyes,» thought Emily as she walked to her flower shop that morning.
She’d always called asters «Michaelmas daisies,» and chrysanthemums were simply «mums.» Flowers had been her passion since childhood, and she’d turned that love into reality—her very own florist’s.
«Flowers are life to me,» she’d tell friends. «While other girls played with dolls, I was arranging posies.»
Unlocking the shop, she mused, «Winter’s breath is in the air. Soon, everything will be blanketed in white—but in here, it’s always spring. Always green, always blooming.»
At thirty-nine, Emily was single, raising her daughter, Daisy, who was in her final year of school and preparing for university. She’d named her after a flower, of course. Her marriage had lasted three years before her husband left—not for another woman, but to move back in with his mother. «Some men just aren’t cut out for family life,» she’d sigh. They still crossed paths now and then; he’d never remarried.
«Until Daisy’s grown, I won’t even glance at men—well, I won’t remarry,» she’d vowed. «My ex couldn’t stand flowers. Called them ‘dust-collectors.’ But I can’t live without them. If I ever find someone, he’d better love them too—or at least tolerate them kindly.»
As a child, Emily adored visiting her grandmother in the countryside—endless fields, forests, and meadows bursting with blooms. She’d gather bouquets daily, filling every corner of Granny’s cottage with wildflowers.
«Who taught you to arrange them so beautifully?» Granny would marvel. «You’ve got the patience of a saint, petal by petal.»
«No one taught me, Granny. I just love it. When I grow up, I’ll have my own flower shop—you’ll see!»
«I believe you, love,» Granny would say—and she truly did.
One day, Emily found a book on local flora in Granny’s attic, tucked away in a box of old volumes.
«Whose book is this?» she asked. «Who loved plants like I do?»
«Your grandad, Alfred. He knew everything about herbs—and flowers too. You take after him.» Granny sighed. «Gone too soon, that one.»
Emily devoured the book, mastering botany by fourteen. Unsurprisingly, she aced biology. Her love for nature was boundless—but flowers held her heart.
Her family lived in a cottage on the city’s edge, and as she grew, she commandeered every inch of the garden for her blooms.
«Not there, love—that’s where my tomatoes go!» her mum would scold. «I know you—you’ll sneak your seeds in when I’m not looking.»
Indoors wasn’t safe either—every windowsill groaned under pots of geraniums and violets. Emily sang to them, chatted with them, tending them with joy. Her parents exchanged amused glances—their daughter was clearly destined for floristry.
On the first day of school each September, Emily arrived laden with bouquets for her teachers, who adored them. By sixth form, she’d discovered floristry courses.
«Lucy, let’s go to the Chelsea Flower Show!» she’d plead, but her friend would groan.
«Boring! Who wants to stare at plants all day?» Emily couldn’t fathom how anyone found flowers dull. She went alone, spending hours mesmerised by the rainbow of petals. To her, they were alive.
After school, she skipped university without regret, training as a florist instead. She worked in a flower stall, dreaming of her own shop. Years passed—her marriage ended, Daisy started secondary school—and finally, with her parents’ help, she opened a tiny kiosk. Later, she upgraded to a proper shop.
«Mum, I’m so happy—it’s finally happening!» she’d gushed, and her mother beamed.
One day, an elegant woman entered the shop. «Hello, might you decorate a restaurant for my daughter’s wedding? I’ve seen your work—your arrangements are exquisite.»
«Of course,» Emily replied modestly. «When and where?»
«You’re not even asking about payment first! Most people lead with that.» The woman—Margaret—noticed her name badge. «Ah, Emily.»
«We’ll discuss designs first, then I’ll quote a price. You can decide from there…»
Emily poured her soul into the job, crafting ethereal displays in soft pastels. When Margaret saw the result, she gasped.
«This is breathtaking. How do you create such beauty?» She handed over a generous sum, leaving Emily flustered.
«This is too much—»
«Nonsense. You can’t put a price on magic.»
Word spread fast. Soon, Emily was styling weddings, anniversaries, and grand celebrations across town.
Then, one afternoon, a man in his forties walked in—neatly trimmed hair, sporty jacket, warm smile.
«Hello,» he greeted. «Could you help me?»
«Of course. What do you need?»
«A bouquet—something to lift a woman’s spirits.»
Emily liked him instantly. *A man who understands flowers can mend moods*, she thought.
«Who’s it for? A sweetheart? Your mum?»
«Does it matter?»
«Absolutely. Flowers bring joy.»
«It’s for my mother. Her seventy-fifth birthday. Still spry, but… well, you know.»
Emily crafted her finest work, handing it over with a smile.
«Lovely. Thank you.» He paid, turned to leave—then paused, meeting her eyes with a lingering look.
Three days later, he returned.
«Evening, Emily. Surprised? Three reasons I’m here: First, Mum adored the bouquet—you nailed her favourites. Second… I fancied you last time but chickened out. I’m George. Third—fancy a coffee?»
He took a breath, and Emily’s smile told him all he needed to know.
«Glad your mum liked it. Bringing joy is my job—*first*. And *second*… I’d love coffee.»
Over quiet jazz in a cosy café, they talked for hours. George taught biology at the university—a fact that delighted Emily. Shared passions meant everything.
«You’ve no idea how rare it is to find someone who actually *listens*,» George laughed.
They dated, even skied together over Christmas. George, patient as ever, taught her on the slopes (with an instructor’s help). By summer, Daisy was off to uni, and George and Emily married.
«Where else would we have met?» she’d tease. «If you hadn’t needed flowers for your mum?»
George often helped in the shop, especially during holiday rushes. One busy afternoon, a flustered young man dashed in.
«Please—I messed up with my girlfriend. I need a bouquet that’ll melt her heart!»
Emily’s imagination sparked—soft hues, gentle shapes, radiating warmth. The kind of bouquet that whispered *forgive me* without words.
«I’ll do my best,» she promised.
The lad paid, dashed off, and she never saw him again—until a year later, when a couple with a pram stopped her outside the shop.
«Remember me?» the young man grinned. «Your bouquet worked—*this* is the result.» His partner nodded, beaming at their baby.
Emily’s heart swelled. «Be happy,» she said, floating home in a daze—where George, true to form, was cooking something delicious.
«George, what’s that heavenly smell?» she called, kicking off her shoes.
And as she recounted the young couple’s story over dinner, she sighed, «If my work brings people happiness, then I’m exactly where I should be.»
George smiled, raising his glass. «To flowers—and the joy they bring.»