Grief doesn’t fade—it just changes shape. A year after losing Tom, I still visited his grave every month, clinging to the memories we shared. But each time I arrived, I found fresh flowers waiting.
At first, it was comforting. Maybe an old friend still remembered him. But as months passed, I grew curious. Who was doing this?
The groundskeeper told me a man came every Friday—quiet, devoted, always leaving the kind of flowers Tom used to bring me. When I finally saw a picture, I recognized him instantly: my son-in-law, Matt.
That night, over dinner, the truth came out. The night Tom died, he had been on his way to pick up Matt, who was too drunk to drive. A truck ran a red light, and Tom was gone in an instant.
Matt had carried the guilt in silence, visiting the grave every week to talk to Tom, to apologize, to thank him. Hearing the truth hurt, but it also healed something in our family.
Tom’s last act was one of love—and in the end, that love brought us back together.
