I entered the flower shop to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter. I had just picked one when I noticed an old man at the entrance.
He wore an old coat, pleated trousers, worn shoes. Not homeless — just humble, but clean and dignified.
A young florist walked up to him and said harshly:
— What are you doing here, grandpa? You’re bothering the customers.
He answered softly:
— Excuse me, miss… How much for a mimosa branch?
She replied rudely:
— Are you crazy? You clearly have no money.
He pulled out three wrinkled 10-ruble notes:
— Maybe something for thirty?
She handed him a broken, wilted branch:
— Take this and leave.
He took it with trembling hands. A tear rolled down his cheek. It broke my heart.
I stepped up, asked:
— How much for the whole basket?
— Two hundred euros…?
I paid and gave all the flowers to the old man.
— These are for you. Give them to your wife.
He cried. We went to a nearby shop and bought a cake and wine.
— We’ve been together for 45 years… She’s ill… But how could I show up without flowers on her birthday? Thank you, son…
