It started with one daffodil.

My youngest, Luca, picked it from the neighbor’s yard (without asking, of course) and came home beaming like he’d just discovered gold. “For you, mama,” he said, holding it out like it was the most important thing in the world.

Since then? It’s become their ritual.

Every single school day, without fail, my boys come home with flowers. Sometimes it’s a full bouquet from the florist down the street (thanks to their grandma sneaking them cash). Sometimes it’s a random fistful of wildflowers—or weeds, honestly—but they present them with so much pride you’d think they were roses from Buckingham Palace.

Even when it rains, they come dripping wet, backpacks crooked, holding out a soggy tulip or a crumpled dandelion with that same soft smile. “We didn’t forget,” Jude always says. “We never forget.”

It’s not about the flowers. I know that. It’s about the way they love me, out loud and without hesitation.

Some days I feel like I’m failing—like the laundry’s never done and the lunches are too boring and I snapped at them for leaving their shoes in the hallway again.

But then they walk through the door, their faces lighting up as they rush towards me with their little gifts. And for a moment, everything feels right again. The messes, the stress, the constant juggling of responsibilities—they all fade away. All that matters is this: my two little gentlemen, full of love, showing up every day with their hearts wide open, ready to remind me that even on the hard days, I’m still doing something right.

At first, I thought it was just a phase. A sweet little habit they’d outgrow, something they’d eventually tire of. But here we are, months later, and it hasn’t stopped. It’s like an unspoken promise between us. I could never ask for anything more from them.