I had walked into a flower shop to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter. I had already chosen one when I suddenly noticed an elderly man near the entrance.

He was wearing an old raincoat, pressed trousers, polished shoes, and under his coat, a simple shirt.

He didn’t look like a homeless person—he was simply poor. But, at the same time, he was surprisingly neat and dignified.

A young salesgirl approached him. She didn’t even look at him and immediately said:

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

The elderly man didn’t argue; he just quietly said:

— Excuse me, miss… How much does a sprig of mimosa cost?

The girl replied irritably:

— Are you crazy? It’s obvious you don’t have money. Why are you even asking?

The old man pulled three crumpled ten-euro notes from his pocket and cautiously asked:

— Maybe I can find something for thirty euros?

The salesgirl glanced at the money, gave a sneer, and pulled out a nearly dry sprig of mimosa—broken and faded.

— Here, take this. Now go away.

The elderly man gently took the branch and tried to straighten it thoughtfully. At that moment, I saw a tear slide down his cheek, and there was such a look of despair on his face that it broke my heart.

I felt so sorry for that man, and I decided I would teach the rude salesgirl a lesson.

I walked up to the salesgirl, feeling my anger grow:

— Do you realize what you’ve just done?

She turned to me, her face pale. She remained silent.

— How much for the entire basket? — I asked.

— What?… Well, about two hundred euros, I think, — she muttered.

I pulled out the money, handed it to her, took the basket of flowers, and handed it to the elderly man.

— Here, take this. You deserve it. Wish your wife a happy birthday from me.

The old man stood there, speechless. He smiled faintly. Tears continued to fall, but he still held the broken sprig of mimosa tightly in his hands.

— Come with me, — I suggested.

We walked into the store next door. I bought a cake and a good bottle of wine.

The old man stood there, still holding the bouquet of flowers tightly.

— Grandpa, — I said, — don’t worry. I have the money. And you have a wife who you love. Make her happy.

He nodded, unable to hold back his tears.

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