In a quiet home with lace-curtained windows and an overgrown garden, three sisters grow into the women no one expected. Rosalina paints the world she's too afraid to touch. Liliana fights for love that leaves her empty. Petunia dazzles with glitter, but inside, she's unraveling. Tangled in family, desire, and the ache of becoming, their stories twist like wildflowers-aching toward sunlight, breaking through the cracks. Told in a single breath, this coming-of-age tale is a hymn for the soft-hearted, the stubborn, and every girl still learning how to bloom. Some flowers are pressed. Others are left wild.

Some stories are not remembered in words, but in flavors. A sip of something warm. A sweetness that lingers. A bitterness you didn't expect. This is a collection of memory pieces. A quiet echo of love, sisterhood, and the hearts we carry even after they've changed shape. Inspired by the lives and loves of the Milward girls, this companion to A Garden for the Girls We Were offers readers a taste of what it means to grow up, fall in love, fall apart, and find yourself reaching for what once was. Tender, lyrical, and gently aching, these are not full meals but offerings. Moments you might have forgotten until the flavor brings it all back. This isn't about where the story ends. It's about what stays on your tongue long after the last bite.

Before the Milward sisters found love, heartbreak, and themselves, there were the parents who raised them. In this intimate novella told in five tender chapters, readers are invited into the quiet thoughts of the Milward parents as they remember the childhoods of Rosalina, Liliana, and Petunia. From delicate Rosalina's obedience, to Liliana's unspoken strength, to Petunia's dazzling chaos, each chapter reveals what the girls left behind---and what their parents carried all along. Told in soft memories and garden metaphors, A Garden in Their Image is a haunting companion to Where the Wildflowers Grow and Drizzled & Remembered. It is a story about the echoes of parenting, the guilt of loving imperfectly, and the quiet hope that what we plant in love may one day bloom in forgiveness. Some flowers grow wild. Some wilt in silence. But all remember the hands that tried to shape them.

Abilene Thompson was the kind of girl who prayed before bed, kissed behind her mother's back, and believed---deep down---that if she waited long enough, someone would choose her too. Told through fragments, letters, and the echo of unanswered prayers, When Heaven Forgot My Name is the bittersweet tale of a young woman caught between devotion and doubt, romance and reality. As she navigates love in its many forms---first crushes, secret kisses, near-redemptions---Abilene must learn that being chosen isn't the same as being loved, and sometimes, the bravest thing a girl can do is believe she matters anyway. A poetic, aching companion to A Garden for the Girls We Were, this is the story of the one who wasn't in the garden... but wrote letters through the wall anyway.

Two women. Two houses. One garden path-worn by time, softened by footsteps, blooming with memory. Rosalina and Abilene were once girls who lived between letters-separated by distance, bound by longing. They wrote their hearts out in lavender-scented envelopes and sealed with hope. Now, ten years later, they live only a garden apart, raising children in two very different homes, two very different marriages. One house hums with laughter and flour-streaked mornings. The other holds quiet comforts and steady hands. Both are full of love-though not always the kind spoken aloud. As Rosalina's bright family expands with noise and joy, and Abilene awaits the arrival of her second child, the two women find themselves looking backward and forward all at once-reflecting on who they were, who they are, and the kind of mothers they're becoming. Between them, their daughters form a friendship freer and braver than what their mothers ever knew. This is a story about growing up and growing roots. About softness hard-won and joy that doesn't have to be earned. About the women we become after the letters stop, and the children we raise to bloom without apology. It's not a story of endings. It's a story of what blooms. And of all the flowers that followed.