I had walked into a flower shop to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter. I had already chosen one when I suddenly noticed an elderly man near the entrance.
He was wearing an old raincoat, pressed trousers, polished shoes, and under his coat, a simple shirt.
He didn’t look like a homeless person—he was simply poor. But, at the same time, he was surprisingly neat and dignified.
A young salesgirl approached him. She didn’t even look at him and immediately said:
— What are you doing here, old man? You’re bothering the customers.
The elderly man didn’t argue; he just quietly said:
— Excuse me, miss… How much does a sprig of mimosa cost?
The girl replied irritably:
— Are you crazy? It’s obvious you don’t have money. Why are you even asking?
The old man pulled three crumpled ten-euro notes from his pocket and cautiously asked:
— Maybe I can find something for thirty euros?
The salesgirl glanced at the money, gave a sneer, and pulled out a nearly dry sprig of mimosa—broken and faded.
— Here, take this. Now go away.
The elderly man gently took the branch and tried to straighten it thoughtfully. At that moment, I saw a tear slide down his cheek, and there was such a look of despair on his face that it broke my heart.
I felt so sorry for that man, and I decided I would teach the rude salesgirl a lesson.
I walked up to the salesgirl, feeling my anger grow:
— Do you realize what you’ve just done?
She turned to me, her face pale. She remained silent.
— How much for the entire basket? — I asked.
— What?… Well, about two hundred euros, I think, — she muttered.
I pulled out the money, handed it to her, took the basket of flowers, and handed it to the elderly man.
— Here, take this. You deserve it. Wish your wife a happy birthday from me.
The old man stood there, speechless. He smiled faintly. Tears continued to fall, but he still held the broken sprig of mimosa tightly in his hands.
— Come with me, — I suggested.
We walked into the store next door. I bought a cake and a good bottle of wine.
The old man stood there, still holding the bouquet of flowers tightly.
— Grandpa, — I said, — don’t worry. I have the money. And you have a wife who you love. Make her happy.
He nodded, unable to hold back his tears.
— We’ve been together for forty-five years… She’s sick… But how could I show up without flowers on her birthday? Thank you, my son…