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At 12, I stole flowers for my mother’s grave. I didn’t do it out of mischief—I just wanted something beautiful to place beside her headstone. My family had very little then, and grief felt heavier when all I had to offer were wildflowers I’d gathered from the roadside. That day, I slipped a small bouquet from the corner of a flower shop, thinking no one saw me. But as I turned to leave, the shop owner gently stopped me.
