The cemetery was quieter than I remembered. It had been years since I last visited my son’s grave, the pain still too raw to face. But that morning, I forced myself to go, clutching a bouquet of white lilies—his favorite.
I found Christopher’s headstone just as I’d left it, the engraving unchanged. But then my eyes drifted to the plot beside his—a grave I didn’t recognize.
My stomach dropped when I saw the name.
Anna Levan.
My mother.
We hadn’t spoken in over a decade. Our last fight had been vicious, full of things neither of us could take back. She never met Christopher. She never apologized. And I never gave her the chance to.
Yet here she was, buried beside him.
A scrap of paper tucked beneath her headstone caught my eye. The ink was faded, but the words were clear: “Sophie, I was wrong. I loved Christopher, even if I never got to hold him. Forgive me.”
My knees buckled. All the anger I’d carried—the bitterness, the stubborn refusal to reach out—suddenly felt so small.
I sat between their graves, one hand on my son’s stone, the other on my mother’s. The sobs came then, years of grief and regret pouring out.
When I finally stood to leave, the sun had broken through the clouds. I didn’t know who had buried her here, or why. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.
Some goodbyes are really just late arrivals.
