The weight of grief never truly lifts. It’s 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 grown into a young woman who carries her mother’s absence like a quiet shadow.
I looked at the calendar — the circled date mocked me.
Another year had passed, and another anniversary was approaching. A knot tightened in my stomach as I called Eliza.
“I’m going to the cemetery, sweetheart.”
Eliza appeared in the doorway with an indifferent expression.
“It’s that time again, huh, Dad?”
I nodded, words escaping me. What could I say? That I’m sorry? That I miss her too? Instead, I grabbed my keys and walked out, letting silence fill the space between us.
The flower shop was an explosion of color and scent. I walked heavily to the counter.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist asked with a sympathetic smile.
“White roses. As always.”
