The scent of lilies filled the chapel, so thick and sweet it made my stomach turn. I’d always hated lilies, but my father loved them, so of course his coffin was buried beneath a sea of them. I stood at the front of the room, nodding numbly at guests as they filed past, offering hugs and whispered condolences. Everything felt heavy—the silence, the grief, the weight of his absence pressing against my chest.
I thought the worst part was already over. I thought I’d made peace with the finality of seeing him lowered into the ground. But then I noticed it. A single arrangement at the center of the coffin, unlike the others. Roses—deep red roses—nestled among the lilies. Attached was a small white card, tucked halfway under a stem. I almost didn’t see it. But something about it called to me, like it was waiting for me alone.
I pulled it free. The handwriting was elegant, looping, definitely not from anyone I knew. And the words made my breath catch in my throat: Forever yours. Until the very end.
My hands trembled. I looked around, but no one seemed to notice. The mourners were whispering, dabbing their eyes, lost in their own sorrow. I slipped the card into my pocket before anyone could ask.
Later, after the service, I confronted my mother. “Did you see the roses?” I asked carefully.
She frowned, shaking her head. “I told the florist lilies only. Why?”
I hesitated, my heart pounding, then showed her the card. She read it once, twice, her face draining of color. Her hand trembled so violently I thought she might drop it.
“Who would write this?” I whispered.
My mother didn’t answer. She just pressed the card back into my hand and said, “Burn it. Don’t ask questions.”
That was when I knew. My father had secrets.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I pulled the card from my drawer and stared at the words until they blurred. Who was she? The woman who loved him enough to send roses to his coffin, bold enough to sign nothing but those words. Forever yours. My mother’s silence only confirmed it—she knew, or at least suspected, and wanted me to bury the truth with him.
I couldn’t.
I called the florist the next morning, pretending to be my mother, asking who had ordered the roses. The florist hesitated, then finally said, “A woman named Margaret. She insisted they be placed on top.”
Margaret. The name rang hollow, unfamiliar. But it was real.
I searched through his old things, boxes in the attic that smelled of dust and time. And there, in a worn leather journal, I found her name again. Notes scribbled in his handwriting: Dinner with M. Weekend trip—M loves the ocean. Her laugh is everything.
My throat closed. He hadn’t just had a secret. He’d had another life.
When I showed the journal to my mother, she didn’t cry. She just sat very still, her face like stone. “I always wondered,” she said softly. “He was a good father to you. But he was not always a good husband to me.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and I realized she’d carried this knowledge for years. She hadn’t needed the flowers to tell her. But I had.
The roses weren’t just a gesture. They were a final declaration. Proof that even in death, my father belonged not only to us, but to someone else.
At the next visit to his grave, I brought my own bouquet. Not lilies, not roses—just wildflowers, messy and real. I laid them down and whispered, “I loved you. But you weren’t who I thought you were.”
Final Thought
Sometimes the dead speak through the living. My father didn’t leave me words or confessions. He left me flowers, a hidden message nestled among grief, and the truth that love can exist in shadows. The hardest part is realizing the man I buried was both the father I adored—and the stranger I never knew.
