It all started with a bouquet of roses. About ten years ago, on a fateful July morning, I was a young man searching for a flower bush to pick from. That day, the nearest florist shop had been closed, and so I had to resort to picking roses from a neighbor's backyard. The golden sun shone brightly, the wind blew gently, and the birds happily chirped as they perched themselves atop trees. My backyard was barren, save a withering fruit tree and couple of patches of parched grass. That morning, I went to my backyard and peeked over the wooden fence. The neighbor on my left grew a vegetable garden: rows of turnips, carrots, cabbages, and tomatoes occupied most of the land. I peeked over the right fence. My other neighbor grew a flower garden: bushes of roses, patches of daffodils, and several tulips adorned the backyard. Eureka! I jumped over the fence, ribbon in hand, and went straight for the rose bushes. I picked three ruby-red ones and two milk-white ones. I bundled them with a vivid violet ribbon and sniffed them, savoring the sweet scent of fresh roses.

"Who are you?" asked a voice. Startled, I glanced back. It came from a beautiful young woman: her wavy hair cascaded down her back, her honey brown eyes gleamed under the sunlight, and a rosy tint colored her fair cheeks.

"Uh, sorry t-to i-intrude! I wanted t-to give you this," I stammered. I offered her the bouquet. She took them, uttered a short "Thank you" and smiled. My heart was blooming.

"You look familiar. What's your name?" she asked. The pretty woman wanted my name.

"My n-name is Jean. I live next door," I replied, pointing towards my house.

"I'm Alice. Nice to meet you," she introduced herself. She offered her slender hand and I shook it slowly. It was smooth, soft, and it perfectly fit inside my hand. A warm sensation began to course through my body.

And from that moment, I knew I had fallen in love.

About seven years ago, on a cool evening, I was a young man on his first date. An ocean of navy blue and ink-black descended upon the sky, cheddar-yellow streetlamps and harsh, pearl-white lights lit up the city, and shiny cars zoomed down the road as everyone hurried home. Meanwhile at home, I was rushing to prepare for the arrival of my guest. White tablecloths and polished silverware were laid out, but the glasses and plates still hadn't been touched. The doorbell rang. She had arrived! I lightly tossed the salad before I dashed to the door and opened it. There she stood, wearing a burgundy knee-length cocktail dress.

"Alice! Please, have a seat," I said. I led her to the dining table and pushed in her chair. She took off her short coat and placed it on the back of her chair.

"So, is the dinner ready?" she asked.

"It's almost ready. Just wait a moment," I answered her.

"Please, take your time," she smiled.

I rolled out the food. For appetizer, we ate a small bowl of Caesar salad. The oven beeped the second we finished our salad. For the main course, I served a portion of tender chicken breast, seasoned with herbs and complemented with a portion of truffle-oil-drizzled mashed potatoes. She gulped down her red wine, but nibbled on her food.

"You drink faster than you eat," I remarked. She took her last bite and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She then asked,

"Is there any dessert?"

"Dessert? Oh dear, I forgot!"

"It's okay! I was just asking because I already feel full, and it would be better for you to save it if you had already prepared it," she explained.

We were done eating by eight o'clock. I took her hand and led her upstairs to my music room. I lifted the lid off the piano, sat upright in front of it, and began to play. Alice lounged on a chair not far from me as she listened to me. I sang,

"My funny Valentine, sweet comic Valentine;
You make me smile with my heart;
Your looks are laughable, unphotographable;
Yet you're my favorite work of art..."

"Are you saying that you think I'm ugly?" she interrupted. I let out a short chortle.

"Oh, no! In fact I think you're beautiful," I told her. I continued,

"Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
And when you open it to speak, are you smart?"

"Now you're saying that I'm stupid?" she interrupted once more.

"I don't think you're dumb, Alice. I only go for intellectuals," I said. I then closed the song,

"But don't change a hair for me;
Not if you care for me;
Stay, my little Valentine, stay!
Each day is Valentine's day."

I hadn't even finished playing the piano when she had started clapping. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Truly, I was a blessed lad. We spent the rest of the night discussing philosophy, doing duets of our favorite songs, and taking turns to play the piano.

Three years ago, I was anticipating one of the greatest events of my life: the day I would let go of my bachelor days and embrace a life of commitment. The September sky was sapphire blue, like my eyes, and the sun's rays weren't blocked by any sort of cloud. Our closest friends and family gathered outside the church, wearing crisp suits and sparkly silk gowns, before they entered the building and waited at the pews. Flowers and lace ribbons bedecked the chapel with pale purple, light green, and pearl white. At nine o'clock the organ began to play. It was time.

My parents walked me down the red carpet to the altar. There were already a couple of people waiting there: the best man, maid of honor, and the priest. We turned our heads to the gate.

The great oak doors swung back and light poured into the cathedral. There she stood, dressed in a stunning satin dress, and a thin veil masking her lovely face. Her father held her arm as they walked down the aisle. Two young bridesmaids, no older than nine, carried the hem of her long gown. We sat down the moment she arrived at the altar.

The mass was quite lengthy, full of sermons and wedding-related adages. I had never been much of a churchgoer since I started college, but Alice changed that. It turned out that her parents were quite religious.

Finally, the time had arrived for us to exchange our vows. The best man presented our wedding bands: made out of eighteen carat gold and two carat diamonds, it was Alice who chose the rings. We faced each other and held hands as we gazed into each other's eyes. The priest then said,

"Do you, Jean Desrosiers, take Alice Vertrand to be your lawfully-wedded wife? Do you vow to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

"I do," I said firmly. I slid the ring onto her finger.

"And do you, Alice Vertrand, take Jean Desrosiers to be your lawfully-wedded husband? Do you vow to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

"I do," she replied. She slipped the ring onto my finger.

The priest then, through the power of God, blessed our marriage. He then said the six words that I had longed to hear: "You may now kiss the bride."

I lifted the veil. Our eyes were closed, our faces moved closer, and our lips were slightly parted. This was it, I thought.

I enveloped her in my warm embrace as our lips interlocked.

Fast forward to today. Now, I am a man in his early 30s. A husband waiting for his wife outside the hospital ward. The doctor opens the door and I immediately stand up.

"So? Was the surgery a success?" I inquire. He adjusts his metal-rimmed spectacles and hesitates to speak.

"About your wife, Mr. Desrosiers, she was a very strong woman. She really was, but the tumor-"

"Is she alive?" I cut him off mid-sentence. He clears his throat.

"She had a choice, sir, to guarantee her survival, but she chose to sacrifice herself for your child," he says. He then adds, "She is still living, but not for long."

I barge into the room. There she lay. A few packs of liquid drip into tubes that pierce her arm. She looks at me with her tear-filled eyes.

"Alice." I come to her side and clasp my hands around hers. They're weak. Her lips struggle to form a smile. She tells me in her faint voice,

"Why are you sad, Jean? The surgery was a success. Our son is safe and sound."

"But I don't want to lose y-you," I tell her. My grip tightens.

"We cannot have everything in this world, Jean."

"What should we name our son?" I change the subject. She ponders.

"Philippe," she suggests. I nod my head in agreement. She opens her mouth one last time, "Promise me, Jean, that you will take good care of him for me."

"I will, Alice. I-I promise," I say.

I feel the life vanishing from within her as she closes her honey brown eyes.