Years had passed since the last time I visited the cemetery.
Life went on — busy days, daily routines, work, exhaustion.
But the pain inside my heart had never faded.

That morning, I finally gathered my strength, called a taxi, and asked the driver to drop me off at the cemetery gates.

With a small bouquet in my hands, I walked through the iron gate.
The silence… the smell of damp earth… that haunting stillness — everything hit me at once.

Walking among the familiar tombs, my heart tightened.
Each step toward my son’s grave felt heavier than the last.

And then — I saw it.
Christopher’s grave. My little boy.
The inscription on the stone was exactly as I remembered it.

I knelt down and gently placed the flowers.
The pain I had carried inside for years rose up like a powerful wave.
My hands trembled, my eyes burned, and I whispered his name.

But at that very moment — something caught my attention.
The grave next to his.
I didn’t remember there being another stone there.
Curious, I moved closer… and froze.

The name carved on that stone struck me like a hammer.
A name I had tried to forget for years.
But now — it was lying right beside my son’s…

I read:

“Anna Allan — mother, whom you failed to forgive.”

Anna Allan. Mary.

I couldn’t breathe for a moment. My knees almost gave way under me.
Our relationship had ended badly, painfully — after Christopher’s death.

Her guilt, her despair, the constant accusations… all those bitter “if onlys.”
If only I hadn’t left, if only I could forgive, if only I could love again.

But the truth was — I couldn’t.
Not after what she did.
She was driving.

The question echoed in my head:
What was she doing here? How did this happen?
But deep down, I already knew the answer — the moment I saw her name next to my son’s stone.

The tombstone was new, but the dates were old.

It read:

“If you’re reading this, Michael, it means I’ve finally come back to our son.
I knew you’d find this one day.
Don’t blame yourself for Christopher. My heart died with him — even before I did.
I forgive you.”

My knees buckled. I wanted to scream, but only a whisper came out:
“Why now? Why did it take you so long?”

I touched the cold marble, traced her name, and for the first time in years — I didn’t feel anger.
Just an overwhelming sorrow.

Snow began to fall again — soft, white, covering both graves like a blanket.
I couldn’t tell whether it was forgiveness, or punishment that found me that day.

One tear rolled down my cheek and fell between the stones.

“I forgive you too, Mary,” I whispered.

Then I placed Christopher’s toy car on the grave — and for the first time in many years, I felt peace.