A rude florist sold a broken mimosa branch to an old man: I couldn’t hold back and decided to help…

I stepped into a flower shop one afternoon, intending to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter. As I browsed, I noticed an elderly man standing quietly near the entrance.He wore an old trench coat, slightly worn slacks, and shoes that had clearly been shined with care. His shirt was plain, tucked neatly under the coat. He didn’t look homeless—just weathered by life. Though poor, there was a dignity in how he carried himself.

A young florist came up to him, barely making eye contact before snapping:

— “Why are you standing there, old man? You’re blocking the customers.”

The man didn’t flinch. He simply asked, in a soft voice:

… could you tell me how much a single mimosa branch costs?”

She scoffed without hiding her disdain.

— “You’re kidding, right? I can tell you don’t have money. What’s the point of asking?”

With shaking hands, the man reached into his coat and pulled out three worn ten-euro bills.

— “Is there anything I could buy for thirty?”

She rolled her eyes, dug into a basket, and pulled out a wilted mimosa stem—bent, dull, barely holding on.

— “Here. Take it. Now move.”

The old man gently took the limp branch, trying to straighten it with his fingers. I watched as a tear slipped down his cheek, and a deep sadness settled on his face. My chest tightened.

That moment stayed with me. So I decided to act.

---

(Continued)

I walked straight up to the florist, my voice steady but firm:

— “Do you even realize how cruel that was?”

She turned pale and said nothing.

— “How much for the entire basket of mimosas?”

— “Uh… about two hundred euros,” she stammered.

I handed her the money, picked up the entire basket, and turned to the old man.

— “Here, sir. Please take these. Go wish your wife a happy birthday.”

He stood frozen, his eyes wide, still gripping that broken stem as if it were made of gold.

— “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go together.”

We walked next door to a bakery, where I bought a cake and a good bottle of wine.

The old man stood beside me, bouquet in hand, trying to process it all.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ve got the bill covered. You’ve got love. Go make your wife smile.”

His voice cracked as he whispered:

— “We’ve been married forty-five years… She’s unwell now. I couldn’t let her birthday pass without flowers. Thank you, my boy… Thank you.”