Every month on the 15th, I visit my husband Tom’s grave. He’s been gone a year, but the grief still lingers. Each time, I find fresh flowers already placed—always thoughtful, always anonymous. Curious, I asked the cemetery groundskeeper. “Do you know who leaves the flowers?” He nodded. “A man in his thirties. Comes every week. Talks to the headstone.” I asked for a photo. When he sent it weeks later, I instantly recognized the man: Matt, my son-in-law.
That night, I joined Sarah and Matt for dinner. Afterward, I gently told him, “I know about the flowers.” Matt finally confessed: He’d been hiding the truth. The night Tom died, Matt was drunk and called him for help. On the way, Tom was hit by a truck. Matt fled the scene, too ashamed to admit the truth.