This week, a few days before Mother’s Day, we delivered to a quiet street near Yarrunga Reserve playground in Croydon Hills.
I like this route. You turn off the main road, cross a small wooden bridge over the creek beside Croydon Hills Primary School — ducks often swim underneath. A little further on, you pass the school’s chicken coop, where the children’s chickens wander freely in the sun. That morning was bright and peaceful.
The order came from a young boy. The note was simple:
"This is from her son, using his own pocket money. He’s been saving for a long time. Please make it warm, and not too many lilies — mum doesn’t like the smell."
We chose soft pink carnations, cream roses, and pale purple lisianthus with gentle eucalyptus leaves. Nothing too grand — just warm and sincere, like a child’s love.
When we arrived, the little boy was already waiting at the front door, still holding the rest of his savings tightly in his hand. His mum opened the door, saw the flowers, and froze for a second. Then she knelt down and hugged him tightly.
She asked softly, “When did you secretly order this?”
The boy didn’t say anything. He just smiled shyly.
We quietly placed the bouquet down and left without interrupting.
It wasn’t an expensive bouquet. But it was paid for with months of a little boy’s pocket money.
Somewhere between the little wooden bridge, the chicken coop, and Yarrunga Reserve on that ordinary sunny morning in Croydon Hills, a mother received one of the most precious Mother’s Day gifts she’ll ever get.