I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if there was something more sinister going on. After visiting the cemetery, the flowers I had placed on my wife’s grave appeared in the kitchen, nicely arranged in a vase. I buried my wife, Winter, and my guilt five years ago, but it seemed like the past was coming back to haunt me again.
Grief is a persistent weight that never truly departs. It had been five years since Winter’s d3ath, yet the pain was as fresh as the day she was stolen from us. Our daughter, Eliza, was only 13 at the time. Now 18, she had matured into a young woman who carried her mother’s absence like an unsaid weight.
I gazed at the marked date on the calendar, a somber reminder of the anniversary. “It’s time again,” I said quietly, reaching out to Eliza. “I’m heading to the cemetery.”
She arrived in the doorway, her face bland, her eyes reflecting the apathy she frequently displayed when we discussed her mother. “Yeah. “That time again, huh?” she replied bluntly.
Unable to say anything, I grabbed my keys and departed, the quiet between us as thick as the pain we both held.
At the florist, the familiar aroma of flowers brought back memories of happier days. The woman behind the counter welcomed me with the same knowing pity she gives every year.
“As usual, Mr. Ben?” “White roses?”
I nodded. “Just like always.”
As she folded the bouquet, I recalled the first time I gave Winter flowers, when we were young and in love. She had smiled at my anxiousness, calling me “adorable” as I gingerly handed them over to her. Now, as I went out with the bouquet, the recollection felt remote, like if it belonged to someone else.
The cemetery was unusually silent, with only the rustling of leaves in the chilly fall breeze. Winter’s headstone, with her name engraved in gold, shone dimly in the dark light. I knelt and gently put the roses by her grave, brushing my fingertips across the cold stone. “I miss you,” I muttered. “God, I miss you so much.”
After a few minutes, I rose up, dusted the dirt off my knees, and turned to leave. But something seemed odd, and I couldn’t pinpoint it. I attributed it to the weight of sadness, which always twists reality.
When I got home, the house was silent. As I entered the kitchen, my breath stuck in my throat. The identical white roses I’d just put at Winter’s burial were sitting on the table in an unfamiliar vase.
I froze, my heart racing. How was this possible? My hand shook as I touched the flowers. They were real—fresh, with dew still on them. The roses I’d purchased had the same flaws on the leaves. My thoughts raced.
“Eliza!” I yelled, my voice breaking. “Eliza, come here!”
Footsteps walked lightly down the stairs, and Eliza appeared, her eyes widening at the expression on my face. “Dad? “What is wrong?”
My hand was trembling as I pointed at the vase. “The roses… Have you put them here? Where have they come from?”
She shook her head, bewildered. “No, I did not.” I’ve gone out with buddies. “What are you talking about?”
I gulped hard and struggled to form the words. “These are the identical flowers that I laid on your mother’s grave. Exactly the same. “How did they get here?”
Eliza’s face paled as she approached to check the flowers. “That is impossible. “Are you sure, Dad?”
“I’m sure,” I said quietly. “I need to go back. Right now.
The drive back to the cemetery was a blur of panic and disbelief. Eliza insisted on coming with me, though we barely spoke. When we arrived, my heart dropped. The spot where I’d left the flowers was bare. No roses. No sign I had ever been there.
“They’re gone,” I said quietly, glancing at the empty area. But I was here. “I left them here.”
Eliza knelt at the grave, her hand hanging over the barren dirt. “Are you sure, Dad?” Maybe you simply —”
“No!” I interrupted. “I know exactly what I did. “I put them right here.”
The journey back home was filled with uncertainty. When we arrived, the flowers were still sitting in the kitchen, as if taunting me. Eliza and I stood in quiet, marveling at the flowers. Then I noticed a little folded letter placed beneath the vase.
With shaky hands, I grabbed for it and opened the document. My heart almost stopped when I saw the penmanship. It was winter’s.
“I know the truth and forgive you. But it’s time to face what you’ve been hiding.
My world tipped. Winter’s handwriting. Her words. How was this possible?
“Dad, what does that mean?” Eliza inquired, her voice harsh with apprehension. “What truth?” “What did you hide?”
The weight of the secret I’d kept for years weighed down on me. “Your mother,” I said, my voice shaking. “The night she di:ed… it wasn’t just an acc:ident.”
Eliza’s breath caught. “What are you saying?”
I slumped into a chair, my shame spilling out like a confession. “Your mother and I had a fight that night.” She discovered I’d been having an aff:a:ir. I attempted to terminate it, but she found out before I did. She was outraged and saddened. She stormed out, and I never saw her again.
The words hung in the air, thick and oppressive. Eliza’s face contorted with anguish, but then she said, her voice strangely calm.
“I knew,” she said gently.
I glanced up, astonished. “What?”
“I’ve known for years, Dad. Mom told me everything before she left that night. And after she di:ed, I found her diary. I’ve known all along.”
My heart clenched as the weight of her words sank in. “You’ve known? All this time?”
“Yes. “I needed you to admit it.” Her eyes blazed with rage as she waved at the flowers. “I removed the roses from the cemetery. I composed the message in Mom’s handwriting because I wanted you to feel the remorse she felt.”
I looked at her, dumbfounded. For years, we had kept the truth hidden from one other, like a festering sore that would not heal.
“Why now?” I inquired, my tone barely above a whisper.
Eliza’s attention shifted to the calendar. “It’s been five years. Five years of you appearing to be a sad widower while I bore the burden of your secret. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”
The truth was revealed, like an open wound. I gazed down at the flowers, which had once symbolized love but were now a reminder of the lies and betrayals that had broken our family apart.
As Eliza walked away, leaving me alone with my remorse, I knew that certain scars will never heal. They lurk in the shadows, waiting to emerge when the truth can no longer be concealed.
