After my wife passed away, I spent every Sunday at her grave, bringing her favorite flowers and talking to her as if she could still hear me. It was my way of holding on, of living for her memory. But one morning, I found a fresh bouquet already there — the same flowers I always brought. Her family hadn’t placed them, yet week after week, new flowers kept appearing.

At first, I felt confused… then jealous. Who was visiting her? Who loved her enough to come every week? I needed answers. One dawn, I arrived early and hid among the trees, waiting. Soon, a young man — maybe twenty — walked up with flowers. He placed them gently, touched her name, and cried like he knew her deeply.

I stepped forward and asked quietly, “Did you know her?” He lifted his head, and something in his eyes struck me — familiar somehow. After a moment of silence, he said softly, “She was my mother.” My breath caught, my hands shook. My wife had a son… and she never told me.

In that instant, my grief twisted into shock and heartbreak. I thought I had lost everything when she died, but now I realized I never truly knew her whole life. And that young man — mourning beside me — was a part of her I was never meant to discover.