With The Roses
Every June 4th, someone left a rose on my father’s grave. For ten years, we never knew who it was—until I waited by the cemetery and met Raul, a quiet man who revealed that my father had once saved his life. Two decades earlier, Raul had tried to rob my dad’s hardware store, but instead of calling the police, my father offered him a job.
That moment changed Raul’s life. He worked for my dad, found stability, and turned his life around. To honor him, Raul left a white rose every year on the day my father died—white, because my dad once told him they symbolized new beginnings.
Eventually, Raul became family—joining holidays, playing games with the kids, always kind and never asking for anything. Before he passed away, he reunited with his daughter and met his grandson, healing old wounds. After his death, we learned he had left everything he had to us, asking only that we “keep it going.”
Now, every June 4th, we bring two roses—one for my father, and one for Raul. I tell my daughter the story: how one act of kindness saved a man, who then saved others. Because kindness multiplies—and even those who seem lost may be the ones who come back and light the way.