THERESA’S FLOWERS
ALM No.93, September 2026
SHORT STORIES
Nestled beyond the towering Laurentian Mountains, high above the chilly waters of the St. Lawrence River, and just west of the steep slopes of Mount Royal, lived the world's most stunning woman. Her name was Theresa Lafleur. She studied psychology at McGill University. This school, founded in 1821, sits in the heart of Montreal and draws students from all over. Theresa stood small and slim, with dark brown hair. Her kindness shone like pure gold.
I first saw her at a psychology seminar. The room buzzed with talks on the human mind. We started to meet for drinks at a cozy bar on St. Denis Street. This street pulses with life in Montreal, full of shops and eateries. We chatted about classes and dreams. She told me she wanted to help people and that brought her joy. I told her I liked computer programming and that brought me fulfillment.
One evening, as glasses clinked around us, I leaned in. "What do you think the meaning of life is?" I asked. “Is it to worship God? Many religious people think that God should be at the center of their lives and that religious ritual like prayers are the most important activities. Or to search for the meaning of life? Perhaps the quest itself has real meaning and is part of the fun of living. Or to work at a job? A person’s livelihood is important for dignity and sustenance. Some people measure each other based on their occupation. Or to raise a family? Or to learn about all subjects? Perhaps there is a virtue to striving for omniscience.”
She smiled quick. "To have a good time," she shot back.
She shared her roots. "I'm of Irish descent," she said. Then she turned the question to me. "What about you?"
"I'm French," I replied.
We met five times. Each chat grew warmer. On the fifth, I gathered courage. "Would you join me for dinner?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No, I can't." Her voice stayed soft. "I can't say why, but lunch or drinks work. That's all."
Her mystery pulled me in. I fell hard for her grace and wit. By our seventh meet, I could wait no more. I pulled out a small box. Inside sat a pair of gold earrings, gleaming under the bar lights.
Her eyes widened in shock. Dismay crossed her face.
"I can't take this," she said.
"Why not?" I pressed, heart pounding.
"I just can't explain," she whispered.
She looked really taken aback. Something was terrifying her.
I took a breath. "I wanted to show my growing feelings. I meant no harm."
She touched my arm. "I'm not upset. I feel honored. But the gold is not acceptable. That's final."
"Fine," I gave in. "I'll find another path to reach you. I want a way to express my strong feelings for you."
I did just that. I ordered a dozen red roses and a full bouquet of fresh blooms. I had them delivered to her place on L'Esplanade Street. This quiet road lines the edge of Old Montreal, near historic spots. With the flowers went a card: "I love you."
Her call came soon. "Thanks for the flowers. But I sent them back to the shop. I can't keep them."
Our talks continued. Tension built. On the tenth meeting, she sighed deep. "Haven't you heard? Irish folks in Quebec face strict rules. They can't dine out at night. No gold jewelry for them. Also, they must stay low-key, no big shows."
I stared, stunned. This hit like a slap. Irish immigrants fled famine in the 1840s. Over a million left Ireland then. Many landed in Canada, seeking new starts. Quebec took them in, but old tensions lingered. Roots were important to everybody.
"This bigotry shocks me," I said. "It's cruel. Like taking back a gift. Ireland's refugees got a home here—a chance to belong. Now demanding thanks feels wrong. These limits hurt deep."
She nodded slow. "I know. But I can't change it."
My mind raced. How could I win her heart? "How do I court you right with these barriers?" I asked.
She looked away, eyes sad. The weight of old feuds hung between us. In Quebec, cultural lines run sharp. French speakers hold pride in their province. Guests, like the Irish, must tread light to avoid rifts. Experts note how such divides stem from history—think the Quiet Revolution in the 1960s, when Quebec pushed for its own voice. Yet rules like hers seemed outdated, a holdover from bias.
I wondered then if love could bridge it all. Her golden heart called to me still. But the path ahead twisted with unseen chains.
I shrugged off the question with a simple "I don't know." It hung in the air like a fog, thick and unresolved. Earlier, I had tried to win her heart with silver jewelry. A necklace and rings, gleaming under the shop lights. But the gesture felt flat, like an old habit worn thin. It lacked spark, so I sought something bolder.
I sat down one evening and penned a letter to the Prime Minister of Canada. The words poured out, raw and urgent. I begged for action against the deep-seated bigotry that targeted people like Theresa, of Irish descent, in Quebec. Separatist tensions simmered there, fueling old hates. Irish immigrants had faced scorn for generations, their accents mocked, jobs denied. I described the slurs, the cold shoulders, the quiet exclusions that chipped away at dignity. Abolish it, I pleaded. End the cycle. Quebec is so humane and beautiful of a province, why should it have any blemishes.
Then came that tense afternoon in her small apartment. Sunlight slanted through the blinds as we pored over French phrases and Gaelic roots. We laughed at mangled words, our voices blending in rhythm. The buzzer shattered the calm. An urgent phone call pierced the room. Someone in deep trouble. It was one of her patients from the psych internship, a woman unraveling fast.
Her name was Angela Tremblay. A fierce separatist leader in Quebec's independence movement. She had just been arrested for stirring up a crowd at a protest on Maisonneuve Boulevard. Chants for sovereignty turned chaotic; authorities moved in with force. Released on bail, she teetered on the edge. Over the speakerphone, her voice cracked like glass. "I'm going to end it all," she sobbed. "I have a bottle of sleeping pills right here. It's over."
Theresa leaned close to the phone, her face pale but steady. "Don't do anything rash," she urged, voice firm yet kind. "There is hope for you. Hold on." Angela's reply cut sharp. "It's hopeless. My life is hopeless. My causes are hopeless. And life itself feels meaningless." The weight of her words filled the room, heavy as lead. Separatism had consumed her, but arrest broke her spirit. In Quebec, such leaders faced scorn from all sides—federalists, rivals, even allies who turned away.
Theresa acted quick. She dialed for an ambulance, her hands shaking just a bit. Sirens wailed soon after. Paramedics rushed Angela to the hospital. Doctors committed her to a psychological ward for care. There, she could find safety, talk through the pain. Suicide threats like hers were common in high-stress fields; stats from health reports showed one in five psych patients in Canada battled such despair. But intervention saved lives.
Months dragged by, each day a quiet wait. Then, an envelope arrived, stamped official. The Prime Minister's reply. "Dear Sir," it began, polite and measured. "Thank you for your inquiry regarding Quebec mores and the treatment of Irish people. I am investigating your claims of oppression and shall do everything possible to lift it." The words offered a sliver of promise. Mores meant customs, those unwritten rules that bred bias. An investigation could mean real change—interviews, policies, perhaps even public statements.
Theresa and I built on that hope. We married in a simple ceremony, vows exchanged under clear skies. Time healed old wounds. For her thirtieth birthday, I planned big. A giant dinner party at a bustling restaurant downtown. Tables groaned under platters of roast beef, fresh salads, and cakes layered high. Guests raised glasses, toasting her warmth, her drive. I made a fuss, pulling her into dances, whispering praises. Then the gifts: gold jewelry that caught the light—a sleek watch for her wrist, a necklace draping her neck, a bracelet circling her arm, earrings dangling like stars. Ten bouquets followed, roses and lilies in bursts of red and white, filling vases across the room.
She froze at first, eyes wide with fear. Hysterical, almost. Reprisals from authorities loomed in her mind. In Quebec, bold acts could draw eyes—separatist ties, my letter to the PM. Suspicion lingered like smoke. "What if they come for us?" she whispered.
"Let's take the risk anyway," I said, gripping her hand. We dove into the night. Wine flowed freely; we both got drunk, laughter bubbling up. In the haze, we knelt together. Prayed for strength, for peace. The world outside faded. Our bond held firm.
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