The Flower Delivery Mix-Up

A bouquet of roses was delivered to my door on Valentine's Day with a card that said "To my darling Patricia, all my love, Harold." I am not Patricia. I live alone with a cat named Bean.

I called the florist. They'd gotten the address wrong. Patricia lived four doors down. I walked the roses over myself.

Patricia turned out to be a woman in her eighties. When she read the card, she started to laugh and cry at the same time. Harold, her husband of sixty years, was away visiting their son in Florida for the week, and he'd ordered flowers from there, and the florist had written her house number wrong.

She invited me in for tea. We talked for three hours. She showed me photos of their wedding in 1963. I go over every Sunday now. She calls me "the Valentine girl."