The weight of the pain never truly goes away. It has been five years since I lost my wife, Winter, but the pain still feels fresh.
Our daughter, Eliza, was only 13 when it happened. Now, at 18, she has become a young woman who carries her mother’s absence as a quiet shadow.
I mourned my wife for five years – one day, I was stunned to see the same flowers from her grave in the kitchen vase.
I glanced at the calendar, and the framed date mocked me.
Another year had passed, and another anniversary was approaching. A knot grew in my stomach as I called Eliza.
“I’m going to the cemetery, darling.”
Eliza appeared in the doorway, her expression one of indifference. “It’s that time again, huh, Dad?”
I nodded, finding no words. What could I have said? That I’m sorry? That I miss her mother too? Instead, I grabbed my keys and stepped out, leaving the silence to fill the space between us.
The flower shop was an explosion of colors and scents. I walked slowly to the counter.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist asked with a sympathetic smile.
“White roses. Like always.”
