I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if something darker was haunting me. When I returned from the cemetery, the flowers I placed on my wife’s grave were waiting for me in the kitchen vase. I had buried my wife—and my guilt—five years ago, but it felt like the past was clawing its way back to me.
Grief never really leaves. It softens, maybe, but it never disappears. Five years had passed since I lost my wife, Winter, yet the ache still felt raw. Our daughter, Eliza, was only thirteen back then. Now eighteen, she carried her mother’s absence like an invisible weight.
The calendar mocked me with its circled date: another anniversary. My chest tightened as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m heading to the cemetery, dear.”
She leaned against the doorway, her voice flat. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded and left, unable to say anything more. What words could possibly fix what I had broken?
The florist’s shop was warm, full of blooms and perfume. “The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist asked, already reaching for the white roses.
I nodded. “Just like always.”
When she handed them to me, I remembered that first bouquet I had given Winter on our third date, my hands trembling so badly I nearly dropped them. She’d laughed and said I was adorable when I was flustered. That memory dissolved into the present as I made my way to her grave.
The black marble headstone gleamed in the weak light. Kneeling, I placed the roses down and traced her name with my fingers. “I miss you, Winter. God, I miss you so much.” The wind stirred, and for a moment, I pretended it was her touch.
I forced myself to leave, whispering, “I’ll be back next year, love. I promise.”
But when I got home and walked into the kitchen, I froze. On the table stood the very same roses, arranged neatly in a vase I didn’t recognize. They were identical, down to the dew still clinging to the petals.
“Eliza!” I shouted, panic cracking my voice. “Eliza, did you bring these here?”
She appeared on the stairs, frowning. “No. I just got back. What’s wrong?”
My voice shook. “These are the exact roses I left at your mother’s grave. Identical.”
She paled, her eyes flicking between me and the flowers. “That’s not possible, Dad.”
But when we rushed back to the cemetery, the grave was bare. No flowers. No sign I had ever been there.
Back at the house, the roses still waited in the vase. I was trembling when I noticed a folded note tucked beneath it. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the handwriting. Winter’s handwriting.
“I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time for you to face what you’ve hidden.”
My knees gave way as Eliza snatched the note from me, her face pale. “What truth? What have you hidden?”
I sat heavily, the lies I had carried for five years unraveling all at once. “The night she died, it wasn’t just an accident. We fought. She found out I’d been having an affair. She left in anger, got in the car… and never came back.”
Eliza’s breath caught sharply. “You cheated on Mom?”
I nodded, shame pressing me into the chair. “I never told anyone. I couldn’t bear the blame. But her death was my fault.”
She was silent for a long moment, then her eyes hardened. “I knew, Dad.”
I looked up, stunned. “What do you mean, you knew?”
“I found her diary. She told me everything before she left. I’ve known for years. I was waiting for you to admit it.” She pointed at the roses. “Those were me. I took them from the grave. I forged her handwriting. I wanted you to feel what she felt. I wanted you to face it.”
“Why now?” I whispered.
“Because five years is enough. I couldn’t stand watching you pretend to be the grieving widower anymore.”
Her voice broke as she added, “Mom forgave you. She wrote that in her diary. But I don’t know if I can.”
She turned and walked out, leaving me with the roses—once a symbol of love, now a cruel reminder of betrayal. I reached out and touched one delicate petal. Some wounds don’t heal. They wait in silence until the truth forces them into the light.
