Every Sunday, My Daughter Left a Painted Rock on Her Late Father’s Grave – One Morning, Every Rock Was Gone Except One, with a Tiny Brass Key and a Folded Note Hidden Beneath It
“Because he loved you,” she said simply. “And because he knew you’d already lost her once.”
I couldn’t speak. I could barely stand.
“She actually gave them to you?”
“Two weeks after the accident, I received a reply to one of the letters Ian had sent the previous October. One of your aunts had finally agreed to talk.”
