It wasn’t long after James died that the flowers started to come. Always the day before I come to see you on a Sunday. Always fresh, well-arranged, and perfect for the season, like someone knew precisely what flowers James would have picked for me. I thought it was just a coincidence at first. Maybe a former student is paying their respects. James had been a teacher his whole life, and a lot of people admired how smart he was. Or maybe a college friend from a long time ago. But whoever it was, they never left a message, notified me they were there, or ran into me. The roses came every week, like clockwork.
I didn’t know who left them, but I felt strangely calm when they got there. The setup changed with the seasons. There were daffodils and tulips in the spring, magnificent peonies and roses in the summer and chrysanthemums and marigolds in the autumn. Someone knew what they were doing, not just when it came to taking care of flowers but also when it came to what they meant. It felt like it was about me. It felt like James was still talking to me via them.
In the end, I couldn’t help but be curious. I asked the older man who works at the cemetery if he knew who might have done it. He was quite kind. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “There’s a young man.” It comes every Friday afternoon. It doesn’t say much. He merely parks in the back, brings the flowers, and stays for a while. Shut up. “By yourself.”
I couldn’t think of anyone who fit that description. I didn’t know any close family friends or students. And there are probably no young men in our circle who would do that as a habit. It disturbed me that I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t want to push it. It could have been a way to pay tribute without saying anything. I couldn’t let it go, though.
I finally persuaded my granddaughter to help me set up a covert nature camera nearby so I could satisfy my own curiosity. A week passed. Then two. The third week of the video exposed the reality in the stillness of black and white photos. I looked through them slowly, not sure what I wanted. I couldn’t breathe after that.
There he was.
Mark. Our son-in-law.
What I saw on TV seemed hard to believe. Mark knelt next to James’ grave and carefully opened a bunch of deep gold and russet chrysanthemums. He had a serious look on his face. Focused. Watch out. He wasn’t just throwing flowers down; he was meticulously arranging them, brushing away leaves, straightening the stems, and cleaning up the area around the stone as if it were something precious. Mark, who hadn’t been coming to family events since the disaster. The same Mark who had seemed cold, busy, and beyond of reach. I couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t say anything. He never mentioned he was going to the cemetery.
That night, like many other nights, we had dinner as a family. I kept an eye on Mark until there was almost no food left. He was quiet, as usual, shifting his food around and nodding politely but not really getting involved. I couldn’t keep it in anymore.
“I saw who brought the flowers,” I said gently. He was astonished and looked up. Our daughter stared back and forth between us, not knowing what to do. Mark’s face went white. He didn’t say no. He didn’t have to do it.
For a long time, no one said anything. Then, slowly and with some doubt, he began to explain. That night—James died on his way to see Mark. Mark had lost his job earlier that week, but he hadn’t told anyone. Not even our daughter. He drove across town to a pub and stayed there for way too long, drinking and not talking to anyone to get rid of his shame and fear. He finally contacted James because he was scared and didn’t know what else to do.
Mark’s voice cracked when he said, “He didn’t judge me.” “He just wanted to know where I was.” He said he would pick me up. I told him not to do it. I begged him not to do it. But he still showed up. He stopped for a second to dry his eyes. “He never got there.”
We knew James had perished in a car accident that night, but we didn’t know where he was going or why until then. Mark had not told anyone else about that.
He said the flowers were his way of saying what he couldn’t say in words. A week after the funeral, he started going to the cemetery. At first, it was for him, maybe as a punishment. But then he learnt about the roses that James used to give me. He remembered how I used to tell him about the flowers James picked for me every summer and how he always brought me marigolds in October since he knew I liked the smell. Mark made them again and over again as a way to honour them. To show thanks. He didn’t think it was right to say it out loud, so he whispered it quietly.
He said, “I didn’t want to make you mad.” “I didn’t think I should be a part of your pain.”
We sat in silence, crying, each of us dealing with a different kind of agony. The room, which had been dark and heavy for months, suddenly felt lighter.
And in that moment, everything changed.
I knew those flowers weren’t there because of remorse. They were put in love. He didn’t have to deal with them; they were a connection he kept. Mark lost more than just his father-in-law that night. He had lost a teacher, a protector, and a strong voice amid a sea of doubt. He chose to commemorate James not with great gestures or dramatic admissions, but with a small act of recollection every week that no one else saw. Up until now.
I know now why seeing those flowers made me feel so tranquil. I could tell they were being honest, even though I didn’t know who left them. I could sense James in them. Because, in a way, part of him was there: in the hands of a man he had tried to help and in the heart of a man who had loved him like a father even if he didn’t say anything.
When you’re upset, words don’t always spring to mind. It sometimes puts flowers on a grave. It waits in silence for the right time to tell the truth. And often the deepest form of love is the kind we don’t talk about, but just live, week after week, flower after flower.