I thought visiting my dad’s grave would help me find peace, but what I discovered there was sh:ocking.
My dad passed away from c:ancer two years ago, leaving me with deep grief. I still remember the day we found out he had stage IV lung cancer. It felt like the world stopped, and we were trapped in a nightmare. Even though the doctors started treatment right away, we knew it was too late. Dad fought hard, but in the end, cancer won.
I was at home when my mom called to tell me he was gone. Her voice, usually strong, broke as she said, “Penny… he’s gone.” That moment is etched in my memory, filled with tears and hurried packing.
My husband, Andrew, drove us to my mom’s house, and I almost expected Dad to greet us at the door. But that didn’t happen. At the funeral, I felt disconnected, like I was watching myself from a distance, crying as they lowered the casket. It felt like a part of me was buried with him. Even after two years, the pain of losing my father still feels fresh.
I avoided going back to our hometown because everything there reminded me of Dad. I buried myself in work to escape the sadness. My mom started visiting me instead, and I was glad to avoid those painful memories. But eventually, I felt guilty and knew I had to face them.
Last Monday, Andrew and I drove back home. My anxiety grew as we got closer. Our first stop was the cemetery. Each step towards Dad’s grave felt heavier than the last. When I got there, I collapsed in front of his tombstone, tears streaming down my face. Andrew gently brought me back to reality. “Penny, look over there,” he said quietly. I turned and saw another gravestone a few yards away, and my heart stopped.
It had my name on it: “Forever in Our Hearts, Penelope.” The photo on it was of me as a little girl, smiling. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t a nightmare—I was awake, and this grave was real. Shaking, I called my mom. She answered right away. “Mom, I’m at the cemetery, and there’s… there’s a grave with my name on it. What’s going on?”
After a pause, Mom’s calm voice replied, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back to see it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“After your father died, I felt like I lost both of you. You stopped visiting, stopped calling… I needed something to mourn.” She continued, “So, I bought the plot next to your father’s and had the headstone made. It was the only way I could cope.”
I felt a mix of anger and sadness. Why didn’t she tell me this during her visits? Why pretend everything was normal? Then I realized—her frequent visits, her constant worry about my health, her insistence that I come home. She wasn’t just mourning; she was preparing for something more. A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the “vitamins” Mom had given me last year. Could she have been trying to…?
I needed answers. “Mom, I’ll be over soon,” I told her and hung up. As we drove to her house, the streets that once brought happy memories now filled me with fear. When we arrived, Mom smiled as if she had been expecting us. Inside, everything was the same except for a small shrine with my photo, candles, and fresh flowers. My stomach turned. “Mom, this has to stop,” I said, my voice shaking. “Why did you do this?”
“I couldn’t let you leave me like your father did,” she said. “I needed to keep you close. This was the only way I knew.”
It was clear this wasn’t just grief—it was an obsession. I knew she wouldn’t let me live my life unless I did something. I suggested she move closer to us so we could see each other every day. She hesitated but eventually agreed. A week later, we watched as workers removed the gravestone with my name on it, and I helped Mom take down the shrine in her living room.
The process hasn’t been easy, but I’m glad I visited Dad’s grave that day. It helped me uncover Mom’s strange world, and for the first time in years, it feels like we’re on the right path. Dad’s memory will always be with us, but now it brings us strength instead of pain.
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