I sat in that quiet kitchen long after Eliza left, surrounded by ghosts—of Winter, of guilt, of who I used to be. The roses stood like sentinels of truth, beautiful yet damning. I had spent five years burying the past under grief and lies, but my daughter had unearthed it with precision.

Eliza was right. I’d worn the mask of the grieving husband while she carried the burden of my betrayal. Winter may have forgiven me, but I never forgave myself. And now, I wasn’t sure my daughter ever would.

The hardest part isn’t confessing—it’s knowing the person you love may never look at you the same way again.

But maybe that’s what I deserve.

So I won’t run anymore. I’ll face what I’ve done. I’ll read Winter’s diary, learn her pain through her own words, and give Eliza the truth she was denied for too long. I don’t know if it’ll be enough.

But it’s time I stop pretending I’m the only one who lost something that night.

🌹 Moral: You can bury guilt, but not forever. The truth has a way of finding its way home—even in the petals of a white rose.