I didn’t visit often. The pain of losing Christopher was a wound I couldn’t bear to poke. But on the anniversary of his passing, I forced myself to go, carrying a single red rose—the kind he used to pick for me from our garden.
The cemetery was still, the only sound the rustle of leaves underfoot. I knelt at his grave, tracing the letters of his name, whispering how much I missed him.
Then I noticed the fresh headstone beside his.
Anna Levan.
My breath stopped.
My mother and I hadn’t spoken since before Christopher was born. She had been critical, cold, unwilling to bend. I had been just as stubborn, cutting her out completely.
Now she was here. Right next to him.
A folded note, tucked beneath the stone, fluttered in the breeze. With shaking hands, I opened it: “Sophie, I died with regrets. Tell Christopher his grandmother loved him, even if she never got to say it.”
The dam broke. Tears streamed down my face as I pressed the note to my chest. All those years of pride, of holding onto anger—what had it cost me?
I stayed there for hours, talking to both of them, saying the things I never got to say.
When I finally walked away, the weight on my chest felt different. Not gone—but softer.
Sometimes forgiveness comes too late. But it still comes.
