The delivery driver was already halfway back to his van when I hurried to the doorway and called after him.
“Excuse me! Are you certain these flowers are meant for me?”
He paused, checked the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then glanced back at the label.
“Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’re yours, ma’am.”
He offered me a polite but slightly puzzled smile, the sort of expression a young man wears when delivering an extravagant bouquet to an elderly woman who clearly lives alone.
“Have a nice day.”
Then he climbed into
