Two years after Dad’s death, I returned to his grave seeking closure. Instead, I found something chilling: a headstone with my name on it—complete with a photo of me as a child.
Cancer took Dad quickly, leaving a hole in our lives. I was drowning in grief, avoiding our hometown and leaning on work to survive. Mom visited often, and I convinced myself that was enough. But guilt eventually drove me back.
At the cemetery, just as I knelt at Dad’s grave, Andrew pointed to the eerie headstone. Shaken, I called Mom. Her voice was calm. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said. “After your father died, I lost you too. I needed something to grieve.”
I was stunned. The grave, the pills she sent, her obsession with my health—it all clicked.
We drove to her house. Inside, I found a shrine: candles, flowers, and my framed photo. “I couldn’t bear to lose you too,” she whispered.
I convinced her to move closer to us. Days later, the workers removed the headstone. Together, we took down the shrine.
Now, we’re healing. My father’s memory no longer haunts us—it strengthens us.
