The roses appeared like clockwork – every Friday before my Sunday visit to James’ grave. For months, I wondered which of his old students or colleagues left these perfect arrangements. The groundskeeper’s description – “young man, comes alone, stays awhile” – didn’t match anyone I knew.
When I finally saw the photo evidence, my world tilted. There was our son-in-law Mark, carefully arranging autumn chrysanthemums at James’ headstone. The same Mark who’d seemed distant at family gatherings since the accident. The same Mark who’d never mentioned visiting the cemetery.
That evening, over a tense family dinner, the story unfolded. James had been on his way to help Mark the night he died. Our son-in-law, ashamed about losing his job, had been drinking at a faraway bar. James – ever the problem-solver – had gone to bring him home safely. He never made it back.
Mark’s weekly pilgrimages with flowers were his secret penance. He’d studied James’ habits, learned which blooms I loved best each season, and recreated them as tribute. As we sat crying in our daughter’s kitchen, I realized these weren’t flowers of guilt – they were blossoms of gratitude for the father figure Mark had found in James, and lost too soon.
