Zibby Mag

By Leah Moore

When my twins were two, they started planting a garden.

It was their special activity with their babysitter while my husband and I were at work. It was the one thing that specifically belonged to them in a house that was otherwise ruled by their older sister.

Of course, that was not the dynamic my husband and I had intended, but when your oldest child is diagnosed with a rare chromosomal disorder, you learn to redraft the plan.

The boys would plant seeds, water their soil, and watch their flowers bloom. Austin’s flower was the envy of the family. It grew taller than he was and despite all the other flowers wilting, this one continued to extend high into the air.

“Hi, flower,” Austin would chime every morning. He would extend his arms around it, careful not to break it, and give it a hug.

But one morning, when a contractor came to repair our roof, his flower was trampled. I came home from work that day to a decapitated flower and a devastated child.

“Mommy, I need tape,” he said. “My flower is broken.”

When the roofer came to pick up the final payment, Austin pushed his way through the doorway and said, “You broke my flower.”

I redirected him — this was, after all, a house of kindness. “Sweetie, thank the kind man for giving you a roof over your head, literally.”

“No. My flower is broken.”

I apologetically smiled at the man, thanked him for the countless hours precariously standing on top of my roof, and closed the door.

I tried to console Austin. We were almost at the point where we needed to sit Shiva for the flower. He would enter the house, look at his empty flower box and say, “No flower. No flower hug.” It was adorable, though heartbreaking.

Two days later a box arrived from Amazon addressed to Austin. He pulled out a small container and a note. “I am sorry your flower was broken. Here is a new one for you.” In his hands was a brand-new sunflower kit. We’d never seen him so happy.

My husband called the roofing company: “We don’t know what you are talking about, but that is a very sweet gesture,” the man said.

I called my sister. My parents. My in-laws. The neighbors. Nobody took credit.

I’d spent the last seven years in such an isolated state. It was the only way to survive. The diagnosis. The death of family members. The decline of my own mental health. I had practically earned a PhD in parenting by learning how to raise a child with cri du chat.

Mix in my day job teaching ninth graders, and it was all I could do not to turn to stone. I had to be armed for a crisis at any moment. I was prepared. Sturdy. Anchored.

My marriage and sanity had survived final exams, and I was ready to graduate. However, to establish my own roots, I’d had to neglect some of my responsibilities to the extended friends and family in my life for almost a decade.

Now, I was ready to reconnect to the outside world, but I wasn’t sure what was waiting for me. Slowly, the sunflower mystery began to reveal two truths. First off, I tell a lot of people about the daily events in our lives and, secondly, we had a strong support system.

With each inquiring phone call about the mysterious sunflower, I realized just how big our community was. This incredible team of neighbors, coworkers, family, and friends was here all along.

It seemed that there was someone in our lives so kind that when she heard about the saga of a boy and his flower, she took a few minutes from her day to send him a surprise replacement.

When I discovered the identity of Austen’s mystery benefactor, my incredible friend and coworker who had been keeping me afloat for years, I thanked her profusely. I was grateful, not just for her thoughtfulness but also for reminding me of the extensive team we had around us.

Austin’s new sunflower bloomed safely in the comfort of our kitchen. “Hi, flower,” he shouted as he ran past it to chase his brother.

It serves as a beautiful reminder that we all have more than one chance to bloom.

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Leah Witman Moore is a high school English and Theater teacher in New York. She is a mom of three and an advocate for individuals with special needs. She is working to shift the narrative to create more stories centering around individuals with disabilities, through her writing and her blog www.lovingyoubig.com. Her first memoir Loving You Big will be released in August 2021.