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Spring has sprung in Montréal, and with it come my annual reflections on trees, flowers, and especially roses. Maybe it is because, after a long winter, growth seems to arrive all at once. Maybe it is Mother’s Day approaching. I am not entirely sure. But roses have always had a hold on me. What began as a childhood ritual with my father became, over time, a symbol of memory, transformation, and the kind of love that travels quietly through generations.

Four photos. Four moments. Four versions of me: reader, grad, exec, author. And yet, they’re all the same “me,” just wearing different hats along the way. It starts in kindergarten. I can still feel the excitement of that morning — slipping into my new red-and-grey uniform, smoothing the crisp white terylene blouse, standing in line for school photos. The instructions were simple: “Pick something on the table for your picture.” I chose a book. Not because I could read (I c