I laughed bitterly. “Eliza, dead people don’t send messages.”
She gestured to the vase. “Then what is this?”
Then, beneath the vase, I noticed a small, folded piece of paper. Trembling, I opened it to find Winter’s handwriting: “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time you face what you’ve hidden.”
I staggered, clutching the table. Eliza’s face grew cold. “What truth, Dad?”
Unable to hold back, I confessed, “The night your mother died… it wasn’t just an accident.”
Her sharp intake of breath pierced the silence. “What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard. “We argued that night. She found out about my affair. She left in anger… and never came back.”
Eliza looked at the roses, then back at me. “I knew, Dad. I’ve known for years.”
I was stunned. “You… knew?”
She nodded, her gaze icy. “Mom told me everything before she left. I needed to hear you admit it.”
The realization sank in. “The roses? The note? Was it you?”
She didn’t blink. “I wanted you to feel what she did that night.”
“Why now, after all these years?”
She answered coldly, “Because I couldn’t watch you pretend anymore. Mom might’ve forgiven you, but I don’t know if I can.”
She left, leaving me alone with the roses—a once-loving symbol, now a painful reminder of the betrayal that had shattered our family. As I touched the soft petals, I knew some wounds wait, hidden, until the truth brings them painfully to light.