I stepped into a flower shop to pick out bouquets for my wife and daughter. I had already selected one when I noticed an elderly man standing near the entrance.

He wore a vintage trench coat, wrinkled slacks, well-shined shoes, and a plain shirt beneath the coat.

He didn’t appear to be homeless—just someone with little means. Still, he carried himself with dignity and looked remarkably tidy.

A young florist walked up to him, barely glancing in his direction before speaking:

— What are you doing here, old man? You’re blocking the customers.

The man didn’t protest—he simply responded in a soft voice:

— Excuse me, miss… How much is a single mimosa branch?

The girl answered irritably:

— Are you crazy? I can see you don’t have any money. Why even ask?

The man pulled three crumpled ten-euro bills out of his pocket and cautiously asked:

— Maybe there’s something for thirty?

The florist looked at the money, smirked, and pulled out a nearly lifeless mimosa stem from the basket — broken, dull.

— Here, take it. Now get out.

The man carefully took the branch and thoughtfully tried to straighten it. At that moment, I saw a tear roll down his cheek, and his face showed such despair that my heart sank.

I felt deep sympathy for the poor old man and decided to teach the rude and disrespectful florist a lesson.

I walked up to the florist, anger rising inside me:

— Do you even understand what you’re doing?

She turned to me, her face suddenly pale. She said nothing.

— How much for the whole basket? — I asked her.

— What?.. Uh, about two hundred euros, I guess — she mumbled.

I took out the money, handed it to her, took the basket of bouquets, and gave it to the old man.

— Here, take this. You deserve it. Go and wish your wife a happy birthday.

The man stood there, stunned. He gave a quiet smile. Tears flowed, but he still clutched the broken little branch in his hands.

— Come on, let’s go together — I offered.

We walked into the neighboring shop. I bought a cake and a bottle of good wine.

The old man stood there, still holding the bouquet.

— Grandpa — I said — Don’t worry. I have money. And you have a beloved wife. Make her happy.

He nodded, unable to hold back the tears.

— We’ve been together for forty-five years… She’s sick… But how could I come to her birthday without flowers? Thank you, son…