Every Sunday, I brought roses to my mother’s grave. And every Sunday, they vanished. Then one morning, I caught the culprit—a woman tossing them away. “Those were for my mom,” I said, my voice trembling. She looked me dead in the eye. “Mine too.”
Just like that, my world tilted. Casey, my newfound sister, carried decades of bitterness. She had grown up knowing our mother only in glimpses, while I had her every day. The injustice of it stung.
But as we talked, I saw past her tough exterior. She wasn’t throwing away my flowers out of spite—she was erasing proof that I had the mother she never did.
We’re still figuring things out. Some days are hard; others are surprisingly sweet. But now, when we visit the grave, we bring two bouquets instead of one. Because love, like family, sometimes comes in ways we never expect.
