I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind. After placing flowers on my wife Winter’s grave, I came home to find the same roses waiting for me in a vase. Five years had passed since she died, but grief still felt raw. Our daughter Eliza, now eighteen, carried her mother’s absence like a weight.

When I told Eliza I was going to the cemetery, she barely reacted. At the grave, I left the roses, whispering how much I missed Winter. But at home, the identical flowers waited. Panic rising, I asked Eliza if she’d placed them there. She denied it.

Rushing back, we found the grave bare—no flowers, no sign I’d been there.

At home, beneath the roses, I found a note in Winter’s handwriting: “I know the truth and forgive you. It’s time to face what you’ve hidden.” I confessed to Eliza that I’d had an affair, and that night’s fight led to Winter’s death.

She revealed she’d known all along—found Winter’s diary and forged the note to make me face the truth. “Mom forgave you. But I don’t know if I can.”