After two years of avoiding my hometown, I finally returned to visit my father’s grave, hoping to find some peace. But instead, I found something chilling—a tombstone just a few feet away with my name and photo on it, as if I had died too. Shocked and confused, I called my mother. Her voice was calm—too calm—as she confessed, “After your father died and you stopped coming home,

it felt like I lost both of you. I needed something to grieve. So I made that headstone.” It was unsettling, but something didn’t sit right. Memories surfaced—her giving me unprescribed pills, obsessing over my health, urging me to move back. Her grief had turned into something darker. I confronted her. At her house, I found a shrine to me—photos, flowers, candles. She admitted, “I just couldn’t lose you too.” Realizing she needed help, I convinced her to move closer to us. We took down the headstone and shrine, and though healing will take time, that eerie visit to the cemetery revealed the truth that saved us both from staying trapped in the past.