I went to my wife’s grave on the same day each month. But when I got there this time, I discovered something that had been kept a secret up until that point.
Every month on the fifteenth, I would visit my wife’s grave. She had been gone for a year, and the cemetery was quiet save for our memories and me. However, I frequently saw fresh flowers that I had forgotten to pack.
It was just that someone was coming before me.
I made the decision to arrive earlier than normal one bright morning in order to solve this enigma.
When I came that day, I noticed that the tomb had glass vases set with care. Curiosity was torturing me, but my heart felt constricted.
An old man with a gentle grin was cleaning up the leaves in the graveyard. I went up to him and inquired:
I’m sorry, but who delivers these flowers each week?
“A man has been visiting your wife’s grave every Friday for a year,” he said, nodding.
He started talking about this individual. The individuals who ought to have been at my wife’s grave didn’t fit his description at all. I got to the cemetery even earlier than normal the next week.
The caretaker greeted me as I passed the guardhouse and said, “Hurry, sir, he’s here.”
I was horrified by what I saw when I ran to my wife’s grave.
A few steps away, I froze. A middle-aged guy with shaky hands and gray strands in his hair stood at the grave. He said in a quiet, nearly whispery voice while holding a bouquet of white lilies:
Please pardon me. It was too late for me to know how much I loved you.
As though it were a face, he knelt down and stroked his fingertips over the stone. I let out a gasp. Who was he? What made these words seem so genuine?
The man turned when I took a step closer. I knew him as his eyes gleamed with tears. My wife had mentioned him only a few times, almost in passing, but he was an old college acquaintance.
He let out a deep sigh:
We were young. and I released her. I have always regretted it. I had to come as soon as I heard of her passing.
I’ve been coming here every week ever since. It’s the only way I can stay near her.
I experienced a strange respect as rage and jealousy battled inside of me. He loved her in his own way, and his affections for her remained strong even after she passed away.
I realized that he was neither an adversary nor a rival after glancing at the flowers he was holding. He, too, had a place in his heart for her.
We stood in quiet, but I felt warm instead of alone for the first time in a long time. Because I wasn’t the only one who loved her.
