Grief had brought me to the cemetery every week, but it was curiosity that made me come early that day. For weeks, the flowers I left on my mother’s grave disappeared, while my father’s stayed untouched. I had to know why.
Then I saw her—a woman throwing my roses away like they meant nothing. “Excuse me!” I called out, my voice sharp with emotion. She turned, her expression unreadable. When I told her those flowers were for my mother, she smirked. “Mine too,” she said.
My stomach dropped. This stranger—Casey—claimed to be my sister. My mother’s secret daughter. I wanted to deny it, to scream that she was lying. But something in her face told me she wasn’t.
The anger faded as I realized: she wasn’t the villain here. She had spent her life in the shadows, never fully knowing our mother. While I had a lifetime of love, she had only questions and pain.
We didn’t become instant sisters. It took time—awkward coffees, hesitant conversations, and tears. But slowly, we built something new. Now, when we visit Mom’s grave, we bring double the flowers. And though the past can’t be changed, the future feels a little brighter.
