She took the cactus home without protest, feeling the weight of everyone’s assumptions pressing harder than the clay pot in her hands. It was easy to see it as a joke, a consolation prize for the daughter without a family of her own, the one who could “make do” with something symbolic. Yet in the quiet of her kitchen, that small, stubborn plant began to feel less like an insult and more like a final, unfinished sentence from a man who had never been good with words.
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