For fifty-seven years, Thomas brought me fresh flowers every Saturday.
Roses. Daisies. Lilies.
Even when money was tight.
Even when his hands trembled with age.
It was his promise.
So when he passed, the silence in our house was unbearable.
No footsteps. No flowers. No Saturday knock at the door.
Until one afternoon, someone knocked.
A stranger stood there holding a bouquet — the same kind Thomas used to buy — and a sealed envelope with my name written in familiar handwriting.
Inside the letter, my heart stopped.
Thomas had written:
“There’s something I hid from you. I did it to protect you, but you deserve to know the truth now.”
An address was written at the bottom.
Hands shaking, I drove there.
When the door opened, the woman who stood before me went pale.
“I know who you are,” she whispered.
“I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”
She stepped aside and said softly,
“You need to know what Thomas was hiding from you. Come in.”
As I crossed the threshold, my stomach twisted.
Because whatever truth lay inside that house…
I knew my life would never be the same again.
