It’s been two years since I lost my dad to cancer—two years, four days, and what feels like a lifetime of pain. I still remember the day we got the news about his stage IV lung cancer. It was as if time stood still, trapping us in a nightmare we couldn’t wake up from. The doctors began treatment immediately, but deep down, we all knew it was a battle we couldn’t win.
Dad fought hard, but in the end, cancer took him from us. I’ll never forget how I found out—Mom called me while I was at home in the city. Her voice, usually so strong, cracked as she said, “Penny… he’s gone.” That moment is a blur of tears and frantic packing, but it’s one I’ll never forget.
Andrew, my husband, drove us to Mom’s house. The whole drive, I kept expecting Dad to walk out of the house with open arms when we got there. But he didn’t. At the funeral, it felt like I was watching everything happen to someone else. As they lowered the casket into the ground, I felt like a part of me was being buried with him. People say time heals all wounds, but losing my dad still hurts like it happened yesterday.
In those first days, I could barely function. I cried myself to sleep every night, replaying memories of Dad—teaching me how to ride a bike, sneaking me extra ice cream, beaming with pride at my college graduation. The grief was so heavy that I started questioning everything. Why did this happen to us? Was I cursed to be the unluckiest person alive? I couldn’t bear to go back to our hometown; every face, every street corner reminded me of Dad.
I buried myself in work, trying to drown out the sorrow with busy days and endless meetings. Mom started coming to visit me instead, and I was relieved to avoid those painful memories. But recently, guilt began to eat away at me. I knew I had to go back and face the memories I’d been running from. So last week, Andrew and I made the drive back home, and with every familiar sight, my anxiety grew.
The first place we went was the cemetery. Each step toward Dad’s grave felt heavier than the last. When I finally reached it, my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees in front of the headstone. I traced his name on the cold stone as tears streamed down my face. I was lost in memories and regrets when Andrew’s gentle touch brought me back to the present.
“Penny, look over there,” he said softly. I turned, and my heart froze. Just a few yards away was another headstone with my name on it: Forever in Our Hearts, Penelope. The photo was of me as a little girl, smiling as if I had the world figured out. I stared at it, unable to believe what I was seeing.
This wasn’t a nightmare—I was wide awake, and this grave was real. My hands shaking, I called Mom. She answered on the first ring. “Mom, I’m at the cemetery, and there’s… there’s a grave with my name on it. What’s going on?”
There was a pause, and then Mom’s voice, eerily calm, replied, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back to see it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling more confused than ever.
“After your father passed, I felt like I lost both of you. You stopped visiting, stopped calling… I needed something to mourn.” She paused, then continued, “So, I bought the plot next to your father’s and had the headstone made. It was the only way I could cope.”
I felt torn between anger and heartbreak. But something didn’t make sense. Why hadn’t she mentioned this during her visits? Why act like everything was normal? Then, it hit me—her constant worry about my health, her frequent visits, her insistence that I move back home. She wasn’t just grieving; she was preparing for something else. A chill ran down my spine as I remembered the pills she’d given me last year. Could she have been trying to…?
I needed answers. “Mom, I’ll be over soon,” I said, hanging up before she could respond. As we drove to her house, the streets that once held fond memories now filled me with dread. When we arrived, Mom greeted me with a smile, as if she had been expecting us. Inside, the house was just as I remembered, except for one thing: a small shrine with my photo, candles, and fresh flowers. My stomach turned. “Mom, this has to stop,” I said, my voice shaking. “Why did you do this?”
“I couldn’t let you leave me like your father did,” she replied. “I needed to keep you close. This was the only way I knew how.”
It was clear that this wasn’t just grief—it was an obsession. I knew she wouldn’t let me live my life if I didn’t do something. I suggested she move closer to us so we could see each other more often. She hesitated but finally agreed. A week later, we watched as the cemetery workers removed the headstone with my name on it, and I helped Mom dismantle the shrine in her living room.
The transition hasn’t been easy, but I’m glad I visited Dad’s grave that day. It allowed me to see the strange world Mom had been living in, and now, for the first time in years, it feels like we’re moving in the right direction. Dad’s memory will always be with us, but now it’s a source of strength, not pain.
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