When My Father Read Peonia

Something happened during the presentation of my book Peonia that I never expected.

My father, now 91 years old, stood up to speak.

I had no idea what he was going to say. We had not prepared anything together. I sat there listening, just like everyone else in the room.

And in that moment, I found myself hearing Peonia through the eyes of a reader.

He began by admitting that when he first saw the title of the book, he wondered what a book could possibly have to do with a flower.

He put it aside.

But later that night, just before going to sleep, he remembered an image he had once seen: a single seed planted in the earth. Slowly, it pushed through the soil, rose toward the light, and blossomed into a flower whose fragrance filled the air.

Something about that memory made him return to the book.

He started reading.

At first, quickly.

Then more carefully.

And somewhere along the way, he came across the pages titled "Pause for Reflection."

As he later confessed, he initially skipped over them.

Until he realized that these were not questions meant to be answered quickly.

They were invitations to look inward.

"Each question is a philosophy of its own," he said.

"An inner world that whispers: read me, interpret me, understand me, and you will begin to understand yourself."

At that point, he stopped simply reading.

He began studying.

That distinction touched me deeply.

Because that is exactly what I hoped Peonia would become.

Not a book that is simply read.

But a book that accompanies the reader into a conversation with themselves.

A book that does not try to provide all the answers, but instead creates space for meaningful questions.

Yet there was another part of his speech that moved me even more.

He spoke about a memory from my childhood.

When I was young, I often seemed distracted. My mind wandered constantly.

Like many parents, he tried to understand why.

With remarkable honesty, he shared a moment he had carried with him for years—a moment he regretted.

Then he said something I will never forget:

"Back then, I didn't stop to ask what was troubling this child. What was happening inside her soul? Why did she drift away so easily? The answer, I found, was here in this book."

At that moment, I realized that Peonia had already fulfilled its purpose.

Not because someone agreed with my words.

Not because they enjoyed the writing.

But because it created understanding.

A new perspective.

A different way of seeing another human being.

Toward the end of his speech, he referred to a passage from the book's epilogue:

"Your roots are strong, your heart remains open, and your soul is ready for whatever blooms next."

Then he did something only a father could do.

He turned my words around and made them his own.

He said:

"Peonia lives through the woman—not the woman through Peonia."

I don't know if there is a greater gift for an author than seeing their work take on a life of its own inside the heart of a reader.

And I don't know if there is a greater honour than hearing those words spoken by your own father.

When I left that book presentation, I carried something precious with me.

If you ever choose to read Peonia, don't rush through it.

Don't look only for the story.

Pause at the questions.

Pause at the reflections.

Pause at the moments that challenge you, move you, or make you uncomfortable.

Because perhaps Peonia is not really a book about a flower.

Perhaps it is a book about everything that can bloom within us when we find the courage to look a little deeper.

With love,

Afroditi Oikonomakou
Author of Peonia 🌸