By Evelina Kantidenou
@evelina_kant

This morning, on our way to daycare, my two-year-old son picked a flower.

It was yellow, a little crushed from how tightly he held it. He didn’t say anything. Just walked with it in his hand.

I assumed, as usual, he would give it to his teacher — a quiet little ritual he’s invented at drop-off. He does it without prompting, almost solemnly, as if offering a gift is part of the job of going somewhere you don’t choose to go.

But today, he did something different.

A girl from his class came running to the door, calling his name. Without hesitation, he walked straight over and handed her the flower.

She laughed. He smiled.
And they both disappeared inside.

I stood at the door a second longer than usual.

I don’t know how he learned to give flowers. I’ve never taught him that. I don’t think I’ve never handed someone a flower in front of him, or explained what it means. We don’t even have a garden.
And yet… he knew.

I don’t know if he understood what he was doing — if he felt it was special, or generous, or sweet — or if he just followed a quiet instinct that said: She called my name. I have something in my hand. I want to give it.

I almost stopped him — just for a second.
My first reflex was to say, “That’s for your teacher, remember?”
But I didn’t.
I stayed quiet.
And I watched him choose where his tenderness would go.

That’s when the thought came in:
Maybe I taught him that.
Not with words.
Not with instructions.
But just by living beside him, day after day,
trying to be kind,
trying to show up,
trying to love — not perfectly, but visibly.

I remembered something then, unexpectedly:
being six years old, hiding in the bathroom with a single rose I had picked from a neighbor’s bush. I had planned to give it to my mother, but at the last minute, I changed my mind and gave it to my teacher instead.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because she smiled more that week.
Maybe because she looked tired.
Or maybe I just wanted to see someone light up and feel like I had something to do with it.

I hadn’t thought about that moment in years.
And now here was my son, doing something just as simple, just as quiet — and unknowingly echoing something I’d done long before he existed.
And maybe that’s how it works.

Maybe what we hope to teach doesn’t come from lectures or ideals, but from the things we do when we think no one’s watching.
Maybe it’s not about getting it right every time, but about being close enough, often enough, that something kind finds its way through.

Even on the days I raise my voice.
Even when I’m not patient.
Not available.
Not willing.

There are plenty of those days.

But I come back.
I try again.

And if I’m allowed a single wish, it’s this:
That he keeps loving like that.
Unmeasured.
Unguarded.
Unapologetic.

That he doesn’t learn to fear his heart.
Not from me.
Not from the world.

When he walked inside, he dropped the stem on the floor.
I picked it up and kept it in my pocket all day.
Later, I forgot it was there.
I found it again while folding laundry — dry, bent, and a little bit golden.
It was nothing now.
But it had meant everything for a moment.
And I kept it anyway.

Evelina Kantidenou lives and writes in Rhodes, Greece. She explores modern motherhood, identity, and the quiet contradictions of parenting through reflective storytelling grounded in the everyday.

Like what you are reading at Motherwell? Please consider supporting us here. 

Keep up with Motherwell on Facebook, Instagram and via our newsletter.