Inside The Book: The First 3 Chapters

Things We Know but don’t Accept: Marriage

The Hidden Truths That Keep Love Alive by The Flower Guy © 2025 The Flower Guy • All rights reserved

A Note to My Readers

This is not a religious book. It deals in universal, time-tested principles—the kind echoed across cultures, history, and modern research about men, women, and communication. Whether you come from a faith background or none at all, I hope these stories and lessons bring comfort and practical insight. This is a book about the universal journey we all share.

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Prologue – The Night the Five-Year-Old Made a Vow

We were living in a tenement apartment building—roach-infested, with mice that came out at night. My three sisters were asleep, and the only sounds were the clicks and snaps of mousetraps going off in the dark.

Even now, it feels strange to think my father could have called me, or that I could have gotten up at all. I was terrified of those nights—I never left my bed until morning. But somehow, I found myself walking toward my parents' room. I don't know if he called me or if something else pulled me there. I just know I opened that door—and what I saw is something I'll never forget.

My mother was lying on the floor. A hammer rested a short distance away. I didn't know exactly what had happened, and all these years later, I'm still not sure. But I knew enough to feel the terror of that moment—the first image of marriage I could ever process.

My father told me to stand on a stool, open the medicine cabinet, and hand him the smelling salts so he could hold them under her nose. I obeyed, too young to understand what was really happening, but something deep inside me made a vow that day—one no teacher taught me and no preacher explained.

I swore that this would never be part of my life.

That night shook me to my core.

The next morning, my mother took my hand and walked me to the bus stop. Her face was bruised, yet she smiled as we boarded the bus together. I was only five years old, still learning to tie my shoes, but I looked up at her and said words that still send chills through me today:

"Mom, I'm never going to fight or beat up my wife or my girlfriend—because I don't want them to be ugly."

She didn't respond. And I'm grateful that this conversation never came up again while she was alive. Some memories are better left unspoken.

That moment became my dot—the point that guided every line of my life. Peace became my life's language, even before I could spell the word.

Years later, when my son came to me distraught, those same feelings from that little boy deep in my subconscious came rushing back. It was as if the five-year-old inside me woke up again—the same boy who once stood on a stool holding a bottle of smelling salts.

And he woke up the moment my grown son called me from the road and said,

"Dad—all women are crazy."

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Chapter 1 – When My Son Said All Women Are Crazy

The garage door slammed so hard the walls shook. You burst through it like a man outrunning a fire.

"Dad—all women are crazy! My wife is crazy! My sister is crazy! Mom's crazy—and for certain my life is crazy!"

Your words ricocheted off the concrete. You paced fast, hands flying, eyes wild. "Every girlfriend I've ever had—crazy! I'm done, Dad! I can't take it anymore!"

I was standing there with my hands full of roses, sorting boxes for delivery. For a second I couldn't move. Then it hit—not just your frustration, but a shock that split something deep inside me.

The five-year-old boy I had buried for decades suddenly leapt awake. The one who had once stood in a tenement hallway, promising himself, My house will be different.

That boy had been silent for years—but he had never died. He had been steering my choices from the shadows, whispering fears I mistook for wisdom. And when your voice cracked through that garage, he came roaring back—every image, every sound, every ounce of pain I thought I'd forgotten.

I froze. Because I knew what you were really saying wasn't about women. You were saying, I'm lost.

And as a father, there is nothing worse than watching your child sink while you're scrambling for a lifeline.

I wanted to speak, but my mind was chaos. A thousand thoughts crashed together.

Don't say the wrong thing. Don't lose him now.

I had no script, no plan—just the weight of a lifetime demanding an answer. So I slowed everything down. The air filled with the scent of fragrance and flowers. The clock ticked once. Time held its breath.

In that thin slice of silence I saw my whole life—my father, my mother, the violence, the vow. I'd spent forty years guarding peace in my own home, protecting that promise like a fragile flame. And now my grown son stood before me, shouting the same confusion I was born from.

One wrong word could harden you for life. One right word might save you years of pain.

I took a slow breath.

"Son," I said carefully, "there's no reason to blame yourself, and no reason to blame your wife. But you have to understand something—and if you don't, it'll follow you for the rest of your life.

Men and women are different—consistently, across cultures and time. Not broken. Not bad. Different in ways that complement each other."

You stopped pacing, fists unclenching just a little.

"So you agree they're crazy?"

I shook my head. "No. They're not crazy— they just start where we stop. Their rhythm runs opposite to ours. They feel before we think; we think before we feel."

"Across studies in communication and social behavior," I continued, "one pattern shows up again and again: on average, men lean toward action and problem-solving, while women lead with emotional context and connection.

Neither is wrong—but when you expect sameness, peace dies."

You stared at the floor. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Start learning," I said. "Not about how to fix her—about how to understand her. Because love isn't logic; it's understanding. And peace only survives when understanding replaces judgment."

You leaned against the workbench, eyes wet but stubborn.

"So you're saying this is my fault?"

I shook my head. "No. It's our inheritance. Men and women aren't the same—and that's not the problem. The problem is pretending we are."

The garage fell silent except for the hum of the old light above us. I stood there holding a rose in one hand and my heart in the other, realizing this conversation might change both our lives.

That night, between fragrance and flowers, this book was born— not as a sermon or a lecture, but as a bridge between a father and a son.

A promise that peace is still possible— if we're willing to understand what we already know, but never wanted to accept.

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Chapter 2 – The Great Apology

(The Father Who Forgot to Teach—Until It Was Almost Too Late)

You remember that night, Son. You were frustrated, angry, worn out from the same fights. And then you said it again:

"Dad, all women are crazy."

I didn't laugh. I didn't correct you. I just started talking.

Because in that moment, something inside me collapsed— and another part of me woke up.

I had failed you.

Not because your struggles were your fault, but because I hadn't prepared you for them. For years I had worked, sold flowers, paid bills, and believed that was enough. But I had never sat you down to explain what I had learned the hard way:

Men and women are not just different— they are fundamentally different. And if you don't accept those differences, you will suffer.

That night, my apology became this book— a long conversation between father and son.

Not polished lectures. Not sermons. Just truth.

Stories, lessons, arguments, and the raw honesty of a man who has fought for his marriage and lived to tell about it.

Later that night, you called while boxing roses in your van. Your voice was tight, exhausted.

"Dad—I swear—all women are crazy."

I froze. Because this time it wasn't a joke; it was a plea. And right then it hit me like a punch to the chest—

I had failed you.

You were already married, already in the storm, and I had sent you there unarmed.

That truth hurt more than your words.

So I steadied myself and said,

"Son, there's no blame to pass around. But you need to understand something—not just with your mind but with your peace:

Then I reached for an image you'd never forget.

"Think of it like this," I said. "A Rolls-Royce and a Ferrari—both extraordinary, both top of the line. Which is better?"

You shrugged. "Depends on what you want."

"Exactly. The Rolls is built for silence and smoothness—you float. The Ferrari is built for speed and response—you feel everything.

Equal in value, different in design and purpose. You don't call a Ferrari crazy because it won't glide like a Rolls, and you don't call a Rolls broken because it won't corner at 140.

You respect what each one is— and you drive accordingly."

You didn't argue—not right away. But I knew I owed you more than an analogy.

I owed you an apology.

"Son," I said softly, "There's something I should have told you years ago— and I didn't.

I should have looked you in the eye and said: Life will test you. Marriage will press on you. Men and women aren't the same— and that's not bad; it's beautiful. But if you refuse to accept it, it will break you.

I should have told you earlier. But I didn't."

You were quiet on the other end.

I kept going.

"Here's the hard part, Son— most of life's pain comes from truths we already know but pretend not to.

We know men and women are different. We know passion fades and promises get tested. We know culture doesn't always play fair.

Yet we stay silent.

Schools won't say it. Parents hope their kids will figure it out. And my silence cost you.

I let you walk blind into a battle you shouldn't have had to fight alone."

You sighed. "So you're saying I was doomed from the start?"

"No," I said. "I'm saying I failed you. I knew truths I didn't want to accept myself— so I never passed them on. That's my failure. That's why I'm talking now."

"I can't change the past," I said, "but I can go forward with you. I can hand you the lessons carved into me by struggle, by mistakes, by years of fighting for peace in my own marriage.

And maybe—just maybe— you'll pass these truths to your children earlier than I passed them to you.

So the silence ends here."

That conversation—what started as an apology— became a confession. A transfer of truth from father to son.

It was the night I realized that what saves a family isn't money or hard work— it's wisdom, spoken in time.

And that night, in the quiet between us, this book truly began.

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Chapter 3 – Why Marriage Got Harder—and It's Not Your Fault

Road noise hummed through the phone. You were out on your route; I was on mine. Boxes of roses shifted in both vans.

You grinned. "Dad, every time we talk while I'm driving, you start a sermon."

I laughed. "That's because these routes are cheaper than therapy— and they smell better."

You sighed. "It just feels like marriage got harder, you know? Like everybody's unhappy."

"That's because," I said, "the struggles you're facing aren't entirely your fault.

You were born into a culture that changed the rules before you ever had a chance to learn them."

You chuckled. "Sounds good… but give me some facts, Dad.

When did marriage flip upside down?"

"Fair question," I said. "Two big shifts turned everything around."

I cleared my throat and began.