Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later

I pulled my hand away from the cold brass closet knob in the dark.

The florist shop smelled of wet soil and cold leaves, a damp chill that stayed in the back of my throat long after we walked inside. Adele stood by the refrigerated glass case, her winter coat still buttoned to her chin, her eyes fixed on the pale white rosebuds.

I held the small paper envelope containing forty-two dollars in my coat pocket. It was all we had budgeted for the church aisle decorations, a sum we had agreed on three weeks ago when we sat at the kitchen table with the yellow legal pad.

Adele reached out and touched a stem of the roses, her thumb brushing against a thorn.

“These are four dollars a stem, Dad,” she said.

“We have forty-two dollars left in the flower envelope,” I said.

She set the stem back in the green plastic bucket, her movements slow and deliberate. A small puddle of water had formed on the brown linoleum between our boots from a leaky shelf above.

“We need three more bundles for the pews,” Adele said, keeping her voice low so the clerk behind the counter would not hear. “If we only have the bare minimum on the altar, people will notice.”

“Your sisters will look beautiful,” I said. “Nobody is looking at the wood on the pews.”

Adele folded her hands tightly in her lap as she sat on the small wooden stool by the ribbon rack. It was her habit when she was trying to resolve something without causing a scene.

“She offered to send a wire for the decorations,” Adele whispered.

“We do not need her money,” I said.

The bell above the shop door chimed as a delivery man carried in a wooden crate of ferns. The cold air from the street hit my ankles, reminding me how close the autumn frost was.

“She said she wanted the church to look decent for Harry’s family,” Adele said, her eyes fixed on the bucket of white roses.

“We are paying for this ourselves,” I said.

Adele did not look up, but her fingers remained locked together in her lap.