The deliveryman was almost back at his van when I called him.

“Excuse me. Are you certain these flowers are meant for me?”

He checked his clipboard. “Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re yours.”

He handed me the enormous bouquet and drove away. I carried the flowers inside and placed them on my kitchen table. There were yellow roses—dozens of them.

For some reason, I counted them.

Fifty-six.

My hands went still.

That day would have been my 56th wedding anniversary.

My husband, James, had promised me yellow roses on every anniversary. But James had disappeared only two days after our wedding, fifty-six years earlier.

As I arranged the flowers, something scratched my thumb. Buried among the roses was a tiny, badly folded paper flower. The petals were crooked, the stem held together with old tape, and written faintly on it was a single initial:

J.

James.

My heart stopped.

Tucked beneath the ribbon was an envelope addressed simply:

Mary.

Inside was a message:

“Darling, you won’t believe why I had to disappear. Adrian lied to you. If you still have the yellow dress, bring it to the old station at 11:00.”

I stared at the clock.

10:17.

For the first time in fifty-six years, I wondered if James had somehow survived.

I retrieved my old yellow wedding dress from the cedar chest and hurried to the station with the roses.

At exactly eleven, an elderly man stood from a bench.

It was Adrian—James’s closest friend from the military.

He was carrying an old military bag with James’s name on it.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

Adrian’s eyes filled with tears.

“He’s gone, Mary. James died many years ago.”

I was furious. Adrian had made me believe my husband might still be alive.

Then he admitted the truth.

He had written the letter.

James had survived the attack that I had always believed killed him. He and Adrian had been captured. James was badly wounded but remained alive for several weeks.

During that time, James made the little paper rose.

“He promised you yellow roses,” Adrian explained. “He said this was the best he could do.”

James had also asked Adrian to tell me that he had died instantly, because he didn’t want me spending the rest of my life imagining his suffering.

But before James died, he changed his mind.

“Tell her I was here,” James had told Adrian. “Tell her everything. She’s stronger than I gave her credit for.”

Adrian never did.

He carried the secret for 56 years.

He eventually learned where James was buried but kept that from me too, convincing himself that telling me after so many decades would only reopen my wounds.

Finally, after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, Adrian realized he couldn’t carry the secret any longer.

He took me to James’s grave.

For the first time in fifty-six years, I stood beside my husband’s name.

I placed all fifty-six yellow roses on his grave.

Then I took out the tiny paper flower James had made.

“You promised me yellow roses,” I whispered through my tears. “You were very late.”

I kept the little paper rose.

That night, I placed it inside the crystal vase I had received as a wedding gift. Beside it, I put our old wedding photograph.

One tiny, crooked flower stood alone in a vase meant for dozens.

It looked ridiculous.

It looked perfect.

And for the first time in fifty-six years, I knew the truth.

James hadn’t forgotten his promise.

He had finally sent me my yellow roses.