" My mother used to grow roses in her garden. We'd pick them together every morning."
She fell silent, remembering how she'd carried on the tradition with her papa after her mother died. One by one they'd cut the flowers, each still so fresh that dew glistened on its petals and trickled down her trembling fingers.
"Eight pink roses, seven white ones, and three sprigs of myrtle," she murmured, pointing at the pink and white roses in the line of bushes.
"What is that?"
"It's what I would always bring Mama- the same arrangement my father presented to her when he'd asked her to marry him."
The story of their courtship had been her favorite, one Papa had told her over and over. She'd never tired of it, never stopped asking him to tell it to her.
Before her mother had died, he'd always ended the story with a smile, saying, "Your mother is my true love."
Once she was gone, his expression became solemn, shadows sinking into the lines of his brow, his teeth clenched tight to keep from grimacing. Then he would say, "Your mother was my true love."
So Cinderella had learned how one word could change everything. And she had stopped asking her father for the story. "

― Elizabeth Lim , So This is Love (Twisted Tales)