Every June 4th, roses appeared on my father’s grave. For ten years, my family wondered who left them. A secret lover? A friend? This year, I waited. At dusk, an older man in a denim jacket arrived, carrying a white rose and a notebook. He laid the flower down, whispered a few words, then noticed me. “Yes,” he admitted when I asked. “I’ve been leaving the roses. Your father saved my life.”
His name was Raul. Twenty years ago, he was homeless and ready to steal from my father’s hardware store. Instead of calling the police, my dad offered him work. That single act gave Raul a new beginning. “White roses mean new beginnings,” my father once told him. From then on, every June 4th, Raul honored him.
I invited Raul into our lives. He became family—joining dinners, birthdays, holidays. Then, his own daughter reached out, and Raul reconciled with her, meeting his grandson. Months later, he died peacefully.
At his funeral, countless people told how Raul had helped them. He had become his own version of my dad—quietly saving others. Now, every June 4th, we bring two roses. One for my father. One for Raul. Because kindness multiplies, and legacies live on.
