The church was quiet except for the shuffle of footsteps and the soft hum of the organ. My father’s coffin rested at the front, surrounded by lilies and roses, their perfume thick enough to sting my eyes. People whispered condolences, shook my hand, hugged me with trembling arms. I moved through it all in a haze, clinging to routine to avoid drowning in grief. Until I saw the flowers. A massive arrangement, white orchids laced with ribbon, sitting right by his casket. The card tucked inside carried a name. But not his. Not my father’s.
I froze, my breath catching. The card read: In loving memory of Michael. My father’s name was Richard.
At first, I thought it was a florist’s mistake. A cruel misprint, easily explained. But when I flipped the card over, my heart dropped. There was a note written in handwriting I didn’t recognize: I’ll love you forever. You were mine, even when the world thought otherwise.
The room tilted. My hands shook as I clutched the card, the orchids’ sweet scent suddenly nauseating.
“Everything okay?” my cousin asked softly, stepping closer.
I shoved the card into my pocket, forcing a tight smile. “Yes. Just tired.”
But inside, panic churned. Who had sent those flowers? Who thought they were burying Michael instead of Richard?
Throughout the service, my eyes darted to the arrangement, its presence mocking me, taunting me with questions I couldn’t silence. When I finally confronted the funeral director, he frowned, confused. “They were delivered under your father’s name. Paid in full. We didn’t question it.”
By the reception, whispers had already begun. Some guests had noticed. “Why did the flowers say Michael?” “Was that a nickname?” My mother avoided the subject entirely, her lips pressed tight, her face pale as porcelain.
That night, when the house was finally quiet, I pulled the card back out. The handwriting was elegant, deliberate. The words burned. You were mine, even when the world thought otherwise.
I confronted my mother the next morning, my voice shaking. “Who is Michael?”
She stiffened, her eyes darting away. “No one you need to know about.”
“Don’t lie to me. Did Dad… was he… someone else?”
Her silence was louder than any confession.
Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Your father… he lived another life before us. Michael was the name he used. For her.”
Her.
The word sliced through me.
I stared, the ground shifting beneath my feet. My father, the man I thought I knew, had loved someone else so deeply that even in death, she sent him flowers. Flowers with his other name.
My mother’s tears slid silently down her cheeks. “I thought it ended long ago. I thought he chose us.”
Maybe he had. But the flowers told another story.
I kept the card. Not because I wanted to honor it, but because I couldn’t let it go. It was proof that the man we buried wasn’t just ours. He had belonged to someone else too.
Final Thought
Grief is heavy enough without secrets clawing their way out of the grave. I thought I was mourning one man, my father. But the flowers told me he had been two. And now, every time I see white orchids, I’ll remember not just the man I lost, but the stranger I never knew he was.
