I believed that visiting Dad’s grave would help me make peace with the past, but discovering a photo of myself on a nearby tombstone sent chills down my spine.
My father passed away with c*ncer two years and four days ago, leaving me with what feels like a lifetime of grief. I recall well the day we discovered he had stage IV lung c*ncer. It seemed as if the entire world had come to a standstill, locking us in a nightmare from which we could not escape. Although the physicians quickly began treatment, we all knew the battle was lost. Dad battled courageously, but in the end, c*ncer won.
While I was at home in the city, Mom called and told me about his passing. Her normally firm voice cracked as she delivered the news. “Penny… he’s gone.” The recollection of that moment is a swirl of tears and hasty packing.
My husband, Andrew, drove us to Mom’s house, and I was expecting Dad to greet us at the front door. But that never occurred. At the burial, I felt entirely distant, as if I were seeing myself from a distance, crying as the casket was lowered into the earth. It seemed as if a part of me was buried with him. People say time cures all wounds, but the agony of losing my father is still raw. Two years later, it still feels like I got that horrible phone from Mom yesterday. At first, I struggled to function.
Every night, I wept myself to sleep, repeating images of my father helping me to ride a bike, giving me an extra scoop of ice cream, and smiling with pride at my college graduation. The pain was so great that I began to doubt everything. Why has this happened to us? Was I cursed to be the most unlucky person alive?
I couldn’t handle returning to our hometown; every familiar face and each corner brought back memories of Dad. I plunged myself into work, attempting to drown out my sorrows with spreadsheets and meetings.
Mom began visiting me instead, and I was happy to avoid the awful memories. But suddenly, remorse started to niggle at me. I knew I had to go back and confront the memories I’d avoided. Last Monday, Andrew and I drove home, my uneasiness increasing as familiar landmarks came into view.
We went to the graveyard first. Each step towards Dad’s grave seemed heavier than the previous. When I finally got there, my knees gave out. I sat there, writing his name on the cold stone, tears streaming down my cheeks. Andrew’s soft touch brought me back to reality after I had become lost in memories and regrets. “Penny, look over there,” he said quietly. I turned to see another gravestone a few yards away, and my heart stopped.
On it was my name: Forever in Our Hearts, Penelope. The photo showed me as a little girl, smiling as if I had the world figured out. I stared at the headstone, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. This was no nightmare—I was wide awake, and this grave was real. Shaking, I called Mom. She answered on the first ring. “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 eerily calm voice replied, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back to see it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confusion mounting.
“After your father passed, I felt like I’d lost both of you. You stopped visiting, stopped calling… I needed something to mourn.” She paused before continuing, “So, I bought the plot next to your father’s and had the headstone made. It was the only way I could cope.”
I was divided between wrath and grief. But things did not add up. Why didn’t she address that on her visits? Why pretend everything is normal? Then it hit me: her numerous visits, her persistent concern for my health, and her urging that I return home. She wasn’t just mourning; she was getting ready for something else. A shiver raced down my spine as I remembered the drugs Mom had given me last year. Could she have been attempting to…?
I needed answers. “Mom, I’ll be over soon,” I told her, disconnecting up before she could answer. As we drove to her house, I realized that the streets that had previously carried happy memories now filled me with fear. When we came, Mom smiled as if she had expected us. The inside of the house was exactly as I recalled it, with the exception of a modest shrine with my photograph, candles, and fresh flowers. My stomach churned. “Mom, this has to stop,” I said, my voice trembling. “Why did you do this?”
“I couldn’t let you leave me like your father did,” she told me. “I needed to keep you close.” “This was the only way I knew.”
It was evident that this wasn’t simply sadness, but an obsession. I knew she would not let me live my life until I intervened. I recommended she come closer to us so we could see each other every day. She hesitated, but ultimately consented. A week later, we watched as cemetery workers removed the gravestone carrying my name, and I assisted Mom in dismantling the shrine in her living room.
The transition has not been easy, but I am glad I went to Dad’s cemetery that day. It helped me to unearth Mom’s odd world, and for the first time in years, it seems like we’re on the right track. Dad’s memory will always be with us, but it now serves as a source of strength rather than anguish.
