I saw the confusion in my mother’s eyes.

I’d said it too sharply — “Let them dry out.”

Cold. Final. The kind of tone that didn’t belong to her daughter.

She didn’t understand.

How could she?

To her, roses were a sign of love. A gesture of thoughtfulness. A reason to smile.

To me, they were just reminders of manipulation dressed up as affection.

But she couldn’t know that.

I wasn’t only protecting myself.

I was protecting her too.

She trusted Julian.

She liked ...