I stepped into a flower shop to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter when I noticed an elderly man in a worn coat standing quietly near the entrance. Though his clothes were faded, there was dignity in how he carried himself.

A young florist snapped at him, “Why are you blocking the customers?”

Unfazed, he asked softly, “How much for a single mimosa branch?”

She scoffed. “You clearly don’t have money. What’s the point?”

He gently pulled out three old ten-euro bills. “Is there anything I could buy for thirty?”

Rolling her eyes, she handed him a limp, wilted stem. “Here. Now move.”

The man took it gently, trying to straighten it. A tear slid down his cheek.

That broke me.

I walked up and asked, “How much for the whole basket of mimosas?”

“Two hundred euros,” she said.

I paid and handed them all to the old man. “Go wish your wife a happy birthday.”

He froze. Then whispered, “She’s unwell… but I couldn’t let her birthday pass without flowers.”

We bought a cake and wine together. I paid. He held the bouquet like treasure.

Because love like that? Deserves to be honored.

Always.