Grief is a relentless weight. It’s been five years since my wife Winter passed, but the pain remains sharp, felt deeply by our daughter Eliza, now 18. Every year, I bring white roses to Winter’s grave. But this time, when I returned home, the same roses were inexplicably on our kitchen table. I was stunned, and Eliza hadn’t brought them home either. In confusion, we revisited the cemetery, only to find Winter’s grave bare.

Back home, a note had appeared under the vase, written in Winter’s handwriting: “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time for you to face what you’ve hidden.” As I read, memories of guilt surfaced. Winter’s death wasn’t an accident. She had found out about my affair that night, and we’d argued before she left. Eliza, noticing my reaction, confronted me, revealing that she knew the truth from Winter’s diary.

It was Eliza who had staged everything, wanting me to acknowledge the hurt I’d caused. She admitted she wasn’t sure she could forgive me as her mother had. The roses, once symbols of love, now reminded me of the betrayal I’d buried and the wounds I’d forced my daughter to carry alone.

As the anniversary approached, I quietly prepared for another visit to Winter’s grave, the words I owed Eliza and her mother still hanging in the air.