A year had passed since my wife passed away, but someone left flowers by her grave every week: one day I decided to find out who was bringing the flowers

I buried my wife almost a year ago. It was the hardest period of my life. We had been together for almost ten years. Losing a loved one leaves an emptiness in the soul that nothing can fill.

Since then, I developed a new tradition. Every Sunday, I got up early, bought her favorite flowers — white chrysanthemums and pink carnations — and went to the cemetery. I sat by her grave for hours. I told her how my week went, how work was slowly getting better, how I had learned to bake her favorite cookies, as if she was there listening to me.

Sometimes I just stayed silent, looking at the tombstone, remembering her laughter, how she fixed her hair, how she grumbled when I left socks scattered around. The pain never went away, but I lived for her memory.

But one day something strange happened. When I arrived one Sunday morning, there was already a fresh bouquet on her grave. Beautiful, neat — with the same flowers I usually brought.

At first, I thought it was a relative. Later, I cautiously asked her sister, then her mother — none of them had been there. Nobody knew anything. But the bouquets kept appearing. Every week.

I even started feeling a bit awkward — I felt… jealousy. Jealousy of my deceased wife. Who was this person who also came to her? Who else loved her so much to remember and bring flowers every week?

I couldn’t remain in the dark. I decided to come to the cemetery earlier than usual. I arrived when the sun was just rising, hid behind some distant trees, and waited.

I saw him by my wife’s grave.

A young man, about twenty years old. Tall, wearing a dark jacket. He approached the grave, carefully placed the bouquet, laid his hand on the tombstone… and began to cry. Real, restrained, manly tears. He stood there for a long time, then crouched down and whispered some words.

I stepped out of the shadows and quietly asked:

— Did you know her?

He looked up at me. And there was something… familiar in his face. The features, the gaze, even the shape of his lips. He was silent, then nodded:

— She was my mother.

My hands began to tremble.

— What did you say?..

— I am her son. She gave birth to me when she was twenty. Her first husband was my father. After the divorce, I stayed with him. She left and started a new life… with you. She rarely spoke about me. She wanted me to be happy and not feel like “unwanted baggage.”

I fell to my knees. I thought I knew my wife. I thought I knew everything. But it turned out I didn’t know the most important thing.

— Why didn’t you come sooner?.. — I whispered.

— I came. Only when you weren’t there. I didn’t want to disturb. I just wanted to be with her too. I wanted her to know — I forgave her everything.

And then we sat side by side by her grave.

Two men, connected by one woman. One knew her as a wife, the other as a mother. We were silent. It hurt both of us. The woman we loved had lied her whole life. And now, how do you live after that?

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