I used to believe I was a responsible adult until I met houseplants. It started innocently a cute little succulent named Spike. He was supposed to be “low maintenance,” but within two weeks, he was more of a dried-up cactus crisp. Undeterred, I moved on to a pothos, then a fern, then a peace lily. Each one met its unfortunate fate under my care, despite my best efforts (and frantic Googling). It turns out “bright, indirect light” is just a cryptic code I’ll never understand.
My windowsill has become a plant graveyard a shrine to good intentions and overwatering. Friends now hesitate to gift me greenery, fearing for the plant’s life expectancy. Still, I refuse to give up. There’s something hopeful about bringing home a new plant, even if it’s probably doomed. Maybe one day I’ll keep one alive long enough to name it… and maybe, just maybe, it won’t end in compost. Shutdown123