In the heart of Bel-Air, behind the high gates and manicured hedges of Jennifer Aniston’s sprawling property, lies a private garden most guests never get to see. It’s not part of the house tour. It’s not in any magazine spread. And until recently, no one — not even her closest friends — knew what she did there every spring.
But one man did: her longtime groundskeeper, Marco.
He’d worked the estate for over a decade. Quiet. Loyal. And never one to gossip — until last week, when he shared something that stunned even Hollywood insiders.
“Every April,” he said, “she plants the same flowers. With her own hands. Always the same spot, same number, same arrangement.”
The flowers? White peonies.
The number? Twelve.
The reason? He didn’t know. Not until this year.
In April 2024, Marco was finishing work on the irrigation system when he spotted Jennifer kneeling in the soil — no gloves, no assistants, dirt streaked on her jeans. As she gently placed the final bloom into the ground, he noticed her whisper something.
“She said… ‘Happy birthday, darling. I didn’t forget.’”
Marco thought it might be for a friend. A late relative. Maybe even a pet.
But when he asked, softly, “Miss Aniston… may I ask who it’s for?”, she looked up, eyes shimmering, and simply said:
“For the one who wasn’t meant to be.”
The twist came days later, when a friend close to Jennifer — someone who’s known her since the late ‘90s — confirmed the story and added context.
The twelve white peonies, planted each April, were not for anyone the public knew. Not for her parents. Not for Brad Pitt. Not for any lost relationship we read about in tabloids.
They were for a child.
A child Jennifer once dreamed of having, but never did.
“It was never an announcement,” the friend said. “It wasn’t about infertility or age. It was just a hope she carried quietly — and eventually had to let go of. But she never forgot.”
The planting ritual began in 2012. Quietly. Privately. No posts. No dedications. Just Jennifer, alone in that corner of the garden, letting the world believe she had “moved on,” while still remembering a version of her life that almost existed.
There’s no gravestone. No name. Just peonies.
Every year, twelve.
Because in the letter she once wrote — and never sent — she imagined having twelve springtimes to teach a child how to plant them.
Marco says she never cries. Not out loud. But one year, after she finished planting, she sat on the bench under the olive tree and didn’t move for almost an hour.
“It was like she was waiting,” he said. “Not for someone to come, but maybe… for time to rewind.”
Jennifer has never spoken about this. Not in interviews. Not in memoir drafts. Not even to friends who’ve asked gently.
And maybe she never will.
But sometimes, the most private grief grows in public soil.
And sometimes, love leaves behind flowers no one else understands — except the one who plants them.
