For the past three years, Maria had visited her late husband’s grave every Sunday without fail. Rain or shine, she brought fresh flowers, whispered her updates, and sat with him in the quiet of the cemetery.
But last Sunday was different.
She arrived like always—bouquet in hand, heart a little heavy. But as she knelt beside his headstone, something caught her eye.
A worn leather wallet, half-tucked beneath the grass.
At first, she thought it might belong to a groundskeeper. But when she opened it, her hands began to tremble.
Inside was a faded photo—her wedding day—creased but unmistakable.
Then came the shock: a letter.
Folded carefully, yellowed with time, addressed simply:
“To the woman I never stopped loving.”
Her breath caught.
The handwriting?
It wasn’t her husband’s.
What followed was a confession—from a man who had once loved her, let her go, and came to say goodbye to the one she chose instead.
And he had been visiting. Quietly. For years.
No name. No contact. Just a final line that read:
“He got to spend his life with you. I just needed to say goodbye to the woman who made mine worth remembering.”
Maria sat there for hours. The flowers forgotten.
Because grief is complicated.
And love?
Sometimes it lingers in places you least expect. 🌿
