Eliza was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the roses.
When she finally spoke, her voice was eerily calm.
“I knew, Dad!”
My head snapped up, disbelief engulfing me. “What do you mean, you knew?”
Eliza’s eyes met mine, and I saw years of pain and anger burning in them.
“I’ve known for years, Dad. Mom told me everything before she left that night.
I found her diary after she died.
I’ve known all along.”
“You’ve known? All this time?”
She nodded, her jaw clenched.
“I wanted you to admit it. I needed to hear you say it.”
Realization dawned on me, cold and horrifying.
“The roses and the note?
It was you?”
“I followed you to the cemetery and took the flowers from Mom’s grave. I wanted you to feel the betrayal and hurt she felt. I copied her handwriting and left this note with the flowers because I wanted you to know that you can’t hide from the truth forever.”
“Why now?
After all these years?”
Eliza’s eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall.
“Five years, Dad.
Five years of watching you play the grieving widower while I carried the weight of your secret. I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Eliza, I—”
“Mom forgave you.
She wrote that in her diary. But I’m not sure I can,” Eliza cut me off, her words a dagger to my heart.
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the roses, the same roses that had once symbolized love, now an ominous reminder of the deceit that had torn our family apart.
I reached out and touched a soft white petal, realizing that some wounds never truly heal.
They wait, hidden beneath the surface until the truth forces them into the light.
