Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house. No card came with it. Calls to the flower-shop were not helpful at all. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender's name and just delighted in the beautiful white flower in soft pink paper. But I never stopped imagining who the giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about the sender. My mother encouraged these imaginings. She'd ask me if there was someone for whom I had done special kindness. Perhaps it was the old man across the street whose mail I'd delivered during the winter. As a girl, though, I had more fun imagining that it might be a boy I had run into. One month before my graduation, my father died. I felt so sad that I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation dance, and I didn't care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother, in her own sadness, would not let me miss any of those things. She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia-lovely, strong and perfect with perhaps a bit of mystery .My mother died ten days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenia stopped coming. Which of the following would be the best title for the text?
A childhood Dream. A Mother's Love. A Graduation Party. A Special Birthday.