The cemetery was quiet that morning, just like always. I came every week to leave flowers on my parents’ graves—roses for Mom, lilies for Dad. But something strange kept happening. My mother’s flowers would vanish, while my father’s stayed untouched. At first, I blamed the wind or maybe animals. But when it kept happening, I knew someone was taking them.
One day, I arrived early, determined to find out why. That’s when I saw her—a woman tossing my carefully arranged roses into the trash. My heart pounded as I confronted her. “Those were for my mother,” I said, my voice shaking. She turned to me with an icy stare and replied, “Your mother? Funny, she was mine too.”
The world seemed to stop. My mother had another daughter? This stranger—Casey—was my sister? My mind raced. How could Mom have kept this from me? Anger, confusion, and hurt swirled inside me. But as I looked at Casey, I saw pain in her eyes too. She had grown up without the mother I knew, visiting this grave in secret, carrying years of resentment.
Instead of walking away, I reached out. “I didn’t know about you,” I admitted. “But maybe we can start now.” Slowly, cautiously, we began to talk. Over coffee, we shared stories—her lonely childhood, my happy memories, and the woman who had been both our mothers.
Now, we visit the grave together, side by side. The flowers we leave aren’t just for Mom anymore—they’re for us, too. A symbol of the sisterhood we never knew we had.
