Chapter 3

A month after the divorce, Charlotte spent all her savings to buy a tiny flower shop.

The place was small, wedged between a fruit stand and a barbershop, with a lopsided sycamore tree out front. The previous owner, a woman in her fifties, was desperate to head back to her hometown to look after her grandkids.

She handed over the shop and all the flowers to Charlotte for a price so cheap, Maggie couldn't help but be suspicious.

"Did she give it to you cheaply because nobody else wanted it?" Maggie stood at the door, making a face as she looked up at the peeling sign.

Charlotte replied, tying on her navy apron with scissors and a pen stuck in the pocket, "Her son bought a house in Soritanion and wants her to help with the grandkids.

"She's in a rush to leave, not because there's anything wrong with the place."

"And what about that tree?" Maggie pointed at the crooked sycamore. "It screams bad luck."

"What's the tree ever done to you?" Charlotte shot back.

Maggie rolled her eyes, pulled a printed A4 sheet from her bag, and slapped it onto the glass door. Charlotte leaned in for a look.

It read: [No exes or dogs allowed inside.]

"Seriously, how old are you?" Charlotte said, exasperated.

"It's not childish. It's called attitude," Maggie said, dusting off her hands. "Listen, if Michael ever comes looking for you, show him this sign and tell him to get out."

Charlotte didn't respond. She turned and walked into the shop, sorting through the leftover flowers from the previous owner.

Some roses had snapped heads, some lilies had wilted leaves, but the baby's breath was still fresh, a small cluster of white, like bits of stardust.

She snipped the snapped roses and set them in a little vase on the windowsill. "Even short ones look good," she said quietly to herself.

Maggie leaned against the doorframe, watching her. "Charlotte, are you really okay?"

"I'm fine," Charlotte said.

"You haven't cried at all since the divorce," Maggie pointed out.

"Does crying help?" Charlotte replied.

"Maybe not, but because you don't cry doesn't mean you're alright," Maggie said.

Charlotte paused, scissors in hand. She looked down at the rose she'd trimmed, the edges of its petals tinged with brown, like the burnt edges of paper.

"I know I'm not okay," she said softly. "But I will be."

Maggie didn't say another word. She walked over to help Charlotte sort the flowers. The two of them worked all afternoon quietly, making the shop feel fresh and new.

By evening, sunlight poured in through the doorway, flooding the flowers with golden light, and the whole little shop glowed as if it had been gilded by the setting sun.

Charlotte stood behind the counter, gazing at this tiny, worn little shop that belonged to her alone.

Here, she felt she could truly begin again.

At 5 a.m., the alarm blared in the dark.

Charlotte jumped out of bed, washed her face with cold water, tied up her hair, and headed out to the flower market. The sky was still pitch black, the streets deserted except for a few street sweepers clearing away fallen leaves.

She rode Maggie's beat-up old bike, the icy wind whipping into her collar and making her hunch her shoulders against the chill.

The flower market was set up in a huge tent on the south side of town, brightly lit and packed with people. The scent of all kinds of flowers mixed together was so strong it almost felt overwhelming.

Charlotte weaved her way between the rows of stalls, pushing her cart and picking out roses, lilies, and baby's breath.

"First time here, miss?" A chubby flower vendor asked with a friendly smile, noticing the way Charlotte fumbled with the flowers.

"Yeah, first time," Charlotte replied.

"Opening a new shop?"

"Yeah, on the north side of town."

"North side, huh? Not many shops out that way, so business should be good," the vendor said, picking out the best bunch of roses for her. "You have a pretty face and sweet words. Your shop will be booming."

Charlotte smiled, "Thanks, Miss."

She bought roses, lilies, daisies, and eucalyptus, packing the back seat of her bike until there was barely room for anything else.

As she rode back to the flower shop, the sky began to pale, and early morning light slipped through the cracks between the buildings, stretching her shadow long and thin.

She carried the flowers into the shop, one box at a time, and started trimming, sorting, and changing the water. A rose thorn pricked her finger, and she hissed, sticking her finger in her mouth for a second before she kept snipping.

The first bouquet Charlotte sold was to a girl in her early twenties, who wanted to send it to her sick close friend.

Charlotte picked out pink carnations and white daisies, added a few sprigs of baby's breath, wrapped everything in pale green paper, and tied it with a creamy ribbon.

She wrote a line on the card: [Get well soon. You deserve all the wonderful things.]

The girl read the card; her eyes grew moist. "You write so beautifully."

Charlotte smiled and shook her head. "It's the flowers that are beautiful."

After the girl left, Charlotte stood behind the counter, watching as the bouquet was carried away in someone else's arms. Something strange welled up inside her.

It was not exactly happiness, not quite satisfaction, but a sense of being needed.

She didn't have to be Mrs. Carter to feel needed.

Days went by, and Charlotte found herself getting used to waking up before dawn for the flower market, the snip-snap of scissors trimming stems, and the delighted surprise on her customers' faces when they got their flowers.

She realized she didn't have to play the good girl for anyone anymore. She could live her life fine.

Every night after closing up, Charlotte would sit on the steps outside the shop, sipping hot cocoa and watching the streetlights come on one by one across the street.

The leaves of the crooked sycamore tree slowly turned yellow, drifting down one by one and landing at her feet.

Maggie said, "You finally seem energetic now."

"Are you saying I was boring before?" Charlotte asked.

Maggie rolled her eyes dramatically, imitating Charlotte's old tone. "You used to be like a robot, all you ever said was, 'I'm fine,' 'It's good,' 'Don't bother.'

"Now at least you'll say, 'I'm so tired today,' 'This bouquet is such a pain to wrap,' or 'Can you go get me some coffee?'"

Charlotte thought about it and realized Maggie was right.

Charlotte started learning to say no. She stopped taking last-minute orders, stopped helping with event setups for free, and let her phone ring on her days off.

She started putting her own feelings first, instead of always putting everyone else's needs ahead of hers.

Sometimes, late at night, as Charlotte snipped away at the stems, she'd drift off for a second and think. Those three years of marriage were like a withered branch. Once it was dried up, one had to let it go.

Only after letting go can new shoots begin to grow.