2. Violet
Violet
“Life is too short for bad coffee.”
The Flowerpot Café has been open for a couple of years now, and I still feel surprised every morning when people walk through the door. I don’t know if that feeling will ever go away. The quiet surprise that this place exists, that it is mine, and that people like what I have built.
When I had the idea, I knew I wanted everything to feel intentional. I never wanted it to feel like I just threw it together to have it flop.
I wanted to support a local coffee roaster, so I spent weeks researching, tasting, and comparing notes like I was back in school doing a science experiment.
Thankfully, I need caffeine multiple times a day to function, so all that tasting was beneficial to my health and the well-being of others around me.
I studied interior design at college, and this space feels like the most personal project I’ve ever worked on.
There are wooden flower boxes that line the front windows, overflowing with seasonal blooms. Hanging baskets sway with the wind above the entrance, and a small chalkboard sign rests right beside the door. I usually write an uplifting message every morning followed by a featured coffee beverage.
“Life is too short for bad coffee” is written on the sign, followed by the coffee of the day, “Lavender Daydream Latte.”
It feels less like a business and more like home, something I built that makes me happy. Warm, bright, and alive.
When I was designing the café, I wanted to bring aspects of my childhood into it.
Growing up on a flower farm, mornings smelled like damp earth and lavender, and my summers were spent barefoot between rows of blossoms that were taller than me.
I learned early on that flowers could change a space, soften a mood, and even make people linger a little longer.
The café became my way of recreating that feeling.
Fresh flowers sit at every table, clipped from my parents’ flower farm, Wildflower Grove.
Dried bundles hang from exposed beams overhead.
Eucalyptus and fern on shelves with old pictures of the town.
I have different color palettes, whites, pastels and muted greens, which reminds me of a greenhouse.
Main Street in Lavender Creek spans only a few blocks, but every business feels like it belongs.
The Flowerpot Café is halfway down the street, tucked between the town’s beloved diner and a small gift shop that sells handmade soaps, jewelry, and some knick-knacks, along with some postcards that probably never get mailed out.
The diner, Willow Creek Diner, has been there for as long as I can remember.
My parents used to go there on dates when they first moved here.
Maggie is the owner now. Before that, it was her mom.
That’s the thing about small towns: the family businesses are passed down, and everything has meaning and value.
The red vinyl booths and glowing neon open sign in the diner window make it impossible to miss. The scent of bacon and fried potatoes spills onto the sidewalk every morning.
Lavender Creek, British Columbia is small. Small in the kind of way where there’s one main street, a handful of stoplights, and everyone knows when someone new pulls into town.
Blink, and you’ll miss it.
Living in western Canada is beautiful though, surrounded by mountains and ocean.
Most of my customers are locals, the same friendly faces every morning, but in the summer and early fall, tourists start coming in. People from Calgary and the surrounding areas who want fresh air, water views, and the illusion of slowing down for a weekend.
Before the grand opening, I barely slept. I was convinced no one would show up, that people would think opening a coffee shop here was silly or unnecessary. But not having one never made sense to me. This town needed a place to gather, to linger, sit, and talk without rushing somewhere else.
So, I took the risk.
I have always been a risk taker, always chasing something, some new hobby, a new dream, or love. Not everything has turned out for me, but this coffee shop has.
Now here I am, unlocking the front door, setting out chairs, and greeting the first customers of the day like it’s always been this way.
“Ding!” The oven timer goes off. Brie comes out of the kitchen. As she opens the door, she looks at me.
“These are going to last a whole ten minutes once we open,” she says as she takes out the freshly baked cinnamon rolls. I hired Brie as soon as I got the building for the café. She is the baker and does one hell of a job.
We went to high school together and always kept in contact. She was known as the self-taught baker here in Lavender Creek. She would have a booth at the farmers’ market every Saturday. When I brought up the idea of her working for me, it felt like a match made in heaven.
Maddie is my barista. She usually does the closing shifts.
She’s really bubbly and loves talking to people.
She remembers everyone’s name and their orders, even small details about their lives.
She is the glue that holds this place together.
She went to school with my younger sisters, Rose and Daphne.
Once word got out that I was opening a coffee shop, she came up to me and asked me for a job.
A light knock at the front door sounds, and as I turn around, my other sister, Lily, is standing outside waving like she doesn’t come here every morning.
Lily teaches in the town over. She always stops here on her way to work, even if we aren’t officially open. It’s one of the many perks of having a sister who owns a café.
I unlock the door and let her in, locking it behind her. We still have another thirty minutes before opening, and I look forward to the time we have together before the busy day starts.
“Hey, Lil,” I say, giving her a hug. “How are you?”
“Good,” she replies, hugging me back. “Busy day ahead, but once I have my coffee, I’ll survive.”
“It will be ready soon; the espresso machine is still warming up.”
She heads straight for the kitchen, grabbing a couple of scones, blueberry as always. We lean against the counter, chatting about nothing and everything.
“Have you heard the gossip?” Lily asks, taking a bite of her scone.
“I haven’t, but you know I live for it. What’s up?”
“You remember Everett Callahan? Henry’s older brother,” she asks.
My stomach does one of those flips.
“Oh yeah, he left ages ago. What about him?” I say, trying to sound like I am not really that interested when really all I can think about is the massive crush I had on him in high school.
I can’t imagine what he looks like now. He either peaked in high school or he’s only gotten hotter. I’m hoping it’s the latter.
“He’s back. Mrs. Calloway swears she saw him driving into town late last night. Truck full of boxes. Straight to his parents’ place.”
I reach for a scone. “I thought he loved LA. Maybe he’s just visiting.”
“Maybe,” Lily says. “But Mrs. Calloway is usually right, and honestly, Lavender Creek could use a little excitement.”
I make her coffee, pour my own, and we change the subject. She tells me about some work drama, the usual. Lily stays until opening time, then grabs her to-go cup and heads out the door.
The bell rings as the first real paying customers arrive.
Bill and Sarah come in every morning without fail. They order black coffees and sit at the same corner table by the window. They’ve been married forever, and they still look at each other like they are sharing a secret.
Some mornings they talk. Some mornings they don’t. Either way, they are always together.
I hope I have that someday. Where the silence isn’t awkward, and all you need is to just sit and be with each other.
Not long after Vicky comes in with her daughter, Anna. Vicky moved here a few years ago after a bad divorce and landed a job at the doctor’s office in town as the receptionist. Anna is six, with bright eyes, curious, and full of ideas. She goes to school where Lily teaches.
They are easy to talk to, familiar.
Sometimes they make my chest ache in a way I don’t let anyone see.
I always thought I would be a mom.
At thirty-five, I imagined I would have two kids by now. Maybe three. A husband, a house not too far from my parents’ farm. I thought life would follow a timeline.
Instead, I poured everything I have into this café.
I focused on it with the devotion people use for their families. Every detail mattered. Every decision felt personal. And it paid off; I love this place. It’s my pride and joy.
But some days I wonder what comes next.
I have stopped telling myself that motherhood is still guaranteed. I have learned that nothing in life is guaranteed, including being a mother. I don’t let it bother me, but I don’t ignore it either. I have learned how to hold that sadness without letting it consume me.
Still, unless some impossibly handsome man drops from the sky, I might be doing life on my own.
And for now, I am okay with that.
Mostly.