I was starting to question my own mind, feeling like something dark was lurking around me. When I got back from the cemetery, I was shocked to see the flowers I had placed on my wife Winter’s grave—right there in a vase in my kitchen. Winter had been gone for five years, but it felt like the past was clawing back at me, refusing to stay buried with her.
Grief is a heavy load to carry. It had been five long years since I lost my wife, but the pain in my heart felt as sharp as ever. Our daughter, Eliza, was just a teenager of 13 when Winter passed away. Now, at 18, she had become a young woman, and her mother’s absence hung over her like a shadow that wouldn’t lift.
The calendar stared back at me, a constant reminder of time moving forward while my heart stayed stuck. Another year was slipping away, and another anniversary was right around the corner. I felt a knot twist in my stomach as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m going to the cemetery, honey,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.
Eliza appeared in the doorway, her expression blank. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t find the words. What could I say? That I missed her mother? That I was so, so sorry? I let the silence hang heavy between us before stepping outside.
At the florist, the familiar smell of fresh flowers greeted me. “White roses. Just like always,” I murmured to the florist, my heart aching.
As she carefully wrapped the bouquet, a memory washed over me. I recalled the first time I had given Winter flowers, how she had laughed as I fumbled nervously, trying to impress her.
“She’d love them, Mr. Ben,” the florist said softly, and I could almost hear Winter’s laughter echoing in my mind.
With each step toward Winter’s grave, my heart felt heavier. The black marble headstone gleamed under the sunlight, her name carved in gold. Kneeling down, I placed the roses gently beside her grave.
“I miss you, Winter. God, I miss you,” I whispered, feeling a tear slip down my cheek.
As a chill swept through the air, I almost imagined it was her gentle touch, a sign that she was still with me in spirit. But deep down, I knew she was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring her back.
Back at home, I sought comfort in a cup of coffee. As I stepped into the kitchen, I froze. There, impossibly, was the bouquet of roses I had just left at Winter’s grave, standing proudly in a crystal vase that felt strange to me.
My heart raced in disbelief. I reached out to touch the petals; they were real and fresh. “Eliza!” I called, my voice shaking. “Eliza, are you here?”
Moments later, she rushed in, her eyes wide with concern. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Where did these roses come from? Did you put them here?” I demanded, panic creeping into my voice.
She shook her head, looking confused. “No, Dad. I’ve been out with friends. What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. “These roses… I left them at your mother’s grave.”
Eliza’s face went pale, her disbelief palpable. “That’s impossible, Dad.”
Without wasting another moment, we hurried back to the cemetery. When we arrived, I knelt beside Winter’s grave, my heart dropping. The roses were nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, defeated. “I left them right here.”
“Let’s go home, Dad,” Eliza urged gently, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.
Back in the kitchen, the roses still stood, just as they had before. We faced each other, the flowers between us feeling like an invisible barrier.
“Dad,” Eliza said hesitantly, “maybe Mom is trying to tell us something.”
I let out a bitter laugh, my heart heavy with doubt. “Your mother is gone, Eliza. Dead people don’t send messages.”
“Then what is this?” she countered, pointing at the vase. “Because I can’t explain it any other way.”
Underneath the vase, I noticed a small, folded piece of paper I hadn’t seen before. My hands trembled as I reached for it.
I unfolded the note, and my heart stopped. It was in Winter’s handwriting. “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time you face what you’ve hidden.”
The room spun around me, and I gripped the table to steady myself. Eliza’s face twisted with anger and betrayal.
“What truth, Dad?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “What have you been hiding?”
I sank into a chair, the weight of my secret pressing down on me. “Your mother… that night she died… it wasn’t just an accident.”
Eliza gasped, her eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean?”
“We argued that night,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “She found out I had been unfaithful. She was hurt and angry. She stormed out… and she never came back.”
Silence fell, and Eliza’s gaze fell to the roses, her face a mask of hurt. “I knew, Dad. I’ve known for years.”
The shock hit me like a punch. “You… knew?”
She nodded, her expression hardening. “Mom told me everything before she left. I found her diary. I wanted you to admit it. I needed to hear you say it.”
A chill ran down my spine as the realization sank in. “The roses? The note? Was it you?”
She didn’t flinch. “I took the roses from her grave and left the note in her handwriting. I wanted you to feel what she felt that night.”
“Why now, after all these years?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, tears welling in my eyes.
“Because I couldn’t watch you pretend any longer,” she replied, her voice cold as ice. “Mom might have forgiven you, but I don’t know if I can.”
With those words, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the roses. The flowers that once symbolized our love now served as haunting reminders of the betrayal that had torn our family apart. As I traced a soft white petal, I realized some wounds never heal; they just wait for the truth to bring them into the light.
What do you think? Share your thoughts in the comments!
