Every 15th of the month, I visit my husband’s grave. Just me, the silence, and thirty-five years of memories folded into whispers of wind and stone. It’s been a year since he died, but the ache is still stitched into my mornings. I don’t cry the way I used to—grief has a quieter shape now—but I never go without feeling his absence pressing into my ribs.
For months, each visit had the same quiet routine—except for one detail. Someone always beat me there. A neat bouquet of flowers waited on his headstone. Always fresh. Always thoughtful. And always anonymous.
“Mom? You ready?” Sarah’s voice pulled me from my thoughts that morning. She stood in the doorway jangling her keys, her father’s golden-flecked eyes filled with that familiar worry.
“Just grabbing my sweater,” I said, forcing a small smile.
The 15th was both our anniversary and my ritual. Lately, Sarah had insisted on driving me. I think it helped her too—watching over me the way he once watched over us.
“I can wait in the car if you want time alone,” she offered gently as we pulled into the cemetery.
“I’d like that, honey. I won’t be long.”
I followed my usual path—twelve steps from the big oak, a right at the stone angel—and there it was. His name. And another fresh set of flowers.
“That’s odd,” I murmured, brushing a hand over the petals.
“What is it?” Sarah called from behind.
“Someone left flowers again.”
“Maybe one of Dad’s old coworkers?” she guessed.
But I shook my head. “They’re always fresh.”
“Does it bother you?”
I considered it, surprised by my own answer. “No. It comforts me. I just… wonder who keeps remembering him.”
Sarah gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe we’ll find out next time.”
I looked at the grave, imagining Tom’s crooked grin. “Whoever it is, they must have loved him too.”
Month after month, the flowers changed with the seasons. June daisies. July sunflowers. Always placed by Friday before my Sunday visit.
In August, determined to solve the mystery, I left early and went alone.
The cemetery was quiet, save for the scrape of a rake. The groundskeeper—an older man with weathered hands—was tidying near a headstone.
