The forty-second week, Christabel planted the rose.
Not in a pot.
In the ground.
Where it would grow.
Where it would bloom.
Where it would remind her every day that life continues, even after death.
---
The garden was quiet.
The sun was rising.
The flowers were wet with dew.
Christabel knelt in the dirt. Her hands were bare. Her hair was loose. Her face was calm.
Damien stood behind her. Watching. Waiting.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said.
"I'm not alone."
"Then let me help."
She looked up at him.
"Hold her."
He took Lena from his arms. The baby was awake. Her dark eyes were watching her mother.
"What are you doing, little one?" Damien whispered.
Lena cooed.
"Your mother is planting a flower. For her mother. For the woman who gave her life."
Lena grabbed his finger.
Held on tight.
"It's a sad thing. And a beautiful thing. That's how life works."
---
Christabel dug the hole.
Her hands were shaking.
Not from cold.
From memory.
She remembered her mother's hands. Long fingers. Perfect nails. The way they had looked holding a garden trowel when Christabel was a child.
"You're doing it wrong," her mother had said.
"I'm trying."
"Trying isn't enough. You have to feel the soil. You have to know where to dig."
"I don't know."
"Then learn."
---
Christabel closed her eyes.
The memory was so vivid. So painful. So beautiful.
She was seven years old. Her mother was teaching her to plant roses. The same roses that now grew in this garden.
"Roses are special," her mother had said. "They're beautiful. But they have thorns. You have to respect them. You have to be careful. You have to earn their trust."
"How do you earn a flower's trust?"
"You take care of it. Every day. Even when it's hard. Even when you're tired. Even when you want to give up."
"Like you take care of me?"
Her mother had smiled.
"Yes. Like I take care of you."
---
Christabel opened her eyes.
The hole was ready.
She reached for the rose.
It was small. Barely a seedling. A tiny stem with a few leaves and one small bud.
She placed it in the ground.
Covered the roots with soil.
Pressed it down with her hands.
"I'm not like you," she whispered. "I'm not going to leave. I'm not going to give up. I'm not going to disappear."
The rose swayed in the breeze.
"I'm going to stay. I'm going to take care of her. I'm going to be the mother you couldn't be."
---
Damien knelt beside her.
Lena was in his arms.
"She would be proud of you."
"She wouldn't."
"She would."
"You didn't know her."
"I know you." He touched her face. "And you're the best of her. The parts that mattered. The parts that loved. The parts that tried."
"She didn't try."
"She tried. In her own way. She just wasn't strong enough."
"Neither am I."
"Yes, you are." His voice was firm. "You're the strongest person I know."
---
Christabel looked at the rose.
"I'm going to water it every day."
"I know."
"I'm going to talk to it."
"I know."
"I'm going to watch it grow."
"I know."
"And when it blooms, I'm going to remember her."
He took her hand.
"Not the woman she became. The woman she was. The one who loved you. The one who held you. The one who sang you lullabies."
"How do you know about the lullabies?"
"You told me. In your sleep. You were crying. You were singing."
"I don't remember."
"I do."
---
Lena reached for her mother.
Christabel took her daughter.
Held her against her chest.
"You have a grandmother," Christabel said. "She died before you could meet her. She made mistakes. Big ones. Terrible ones."
Lena stared at her.
"But she loved me. In her own way. And I loved her. Even when I was angry. Even when I was hurt. Even when I wanted to hate her."
Lena grabbed her finger.
Held on tight.
"I'm going to tell you about her. When you're older. The good parts. The parts that made me who I am."
---
Damien put his arm around both of them.
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to break her heart."
Christabel looked at him.
"She's going to need you."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
He kissed her forehead.
"I promise."
---
That afternoon, Sarah came to the garden.
She stood at the edge of the roses.
Stared at the new one.
"For Mother?"
"Yes."
"Why here?"
"Because this is where I come to feel close to her."
Sarah knelt.
Touched the leaves.
"I hated her."
"I know."
"I hated her for leaving. For lying. For making us feel like we weren't enough."
"I know."
"And now?"
Sarah was quiet for a moment.
"Now I don't know what I feel."
"That's okay."
"It doesn't feel okay."
"It doesn't have to feel okay. It just has to be."
---
Sarah looked at her sister.
"How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Forgive her. Move on. Keep going."
Christabel knelt beside her.
"I haven't forgiven her."
"Then how?"
"I'm trying. Every day. To be better than she was. To be the mother she couldn't be. To be the sister you deserve."
"You've always been that."
"Not always."
"Always."
---
Sarah started to cry.
Not the quiet tears.
The kind that came from somewhere deep.
Somewhere that had been hurting for years.
"I miss her," Sarah said. "Even after everything. Even after the lies. Even after the betrayal."
"I know."
"I miss her laugh. Her cooking. The way she used to braid my hair."
"I know."
"I miss the woman she was before. The one who loved us. The one who held us. The one who sang us lullabies."
Christabel pulled her sister into her arms.
"She's still here. In the roses. In the garden. In our memories."
"It's not the same."
"No. But it's something."
---
That night, Christabel put Lena to bed.
Not Damien. Her.
She read her daughter a story. Not a baby book. A real story. One of her favorites.
"There was a woman who planted a rose," she read. "Not because she loved flowers. Because she needed to remember. Because she needed to heal. Because she needed to say goodbye."
Lena stared at her.
"Bah," she said.
"That's right," Christabel said. "Bah."
---
Damien was in the doorway.
"She said it again."
"She said it to me."
"She said it to both of us."
She closed the book.
Set it on the nightstand.
"She's going to be strong."
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to break her."
---
They stood over the crib together.
Lena was asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
"Tomorrow," Christabel said, "I'm going back to work."
"Are you ready?"
"I have to be."
"You don't have to be ready. You just have to show up."
---
The next morning, Christabel went to the garden.
The rose was still there.
Small. Fragile. Alive.
She watered it.
Talked to it.
Touched its leaves.
"I'm going to take care of you," she said. "Every day. Even when it's hard. Even when I'm tired. Even when I want to give up."
The rose swayed in the breeze.
"Like you took care of me."
---
Damien appeared in the doorway.
"She's awake," he said.
"Lena?"
"Yes."
"I'll be right there."
He walked to her.
Took her hand.
"How are you feeling?"
"Hopeful."
"That's new."
"It is."
"What changed?"
She looked at the rose.
"I realized that she's not gone. She's here. In the garden. In the flowers.