On my birthday, I sat alone at our favorite corner booth again—candle flickering, wine half gone, and the seat across from me empty. For the third year in a row, Mark didn’t show. I’d waited through excuses, late arrivals, and promises. But that night, I’d had enough. When he finally showed up, breathless and apologizing, I told him it was over. And I meant it.

Two weeks later, silence filled my house like a fog. Then came a knock. It was Evelyn—Mark’s mother—disheveled and uncharacteristically soft. She handed me a folded address and simply said, “Go. You deserve to know.” I didn’t ask questions. Something in her tone made me listen.

The address led to a quiet cemetery. As I walked the rows, my breath caught at a small headstone: Lily Harper, Oct. 12, 2010 – Oct. 12, 2020. My birthday. Ten years. My heart twisted. Then I heard him. Mark. He looked older, grief carved into his face. “She was my daughter,” he said quietly. “She died in a car crash. Every year, I visit her on her birthday.”

I finally understood. He hadn’t forgotten me—he was mourning. “You should’ve told me,” I whispered. “I was afraid,” he said. “Afraid I’d lose you too.” We sat in silence. “Maybe we can try again,” I said. “No lies. No secrets.” He nodded slowly.

A year later, we stood together at Lily’s grave. I placed a small cake down; he set a photo beside it. We honored her life—together. The grief wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t heavy anymore.

At dinner, Mark handed me a necklace with a lily pendant. “For your birthday,” he said. “I’ll never miss another one.” And this time, I believed him.