His confusion deepened. She was his wife, wasn't she? The medal, the honors, the recognition—all of it should have been passed to her, as his widow. But she stood behind the pillar, like a ghost, too far removed from his family to claim anything.
The scene unfolded before him—rituals that every soldier would have dreamed of, but not him. No, he wasn't a military general. His contributions had been to the country in ways others could never have predicted, and that was why this was happening. Yet, he couldn't understand her hesitation, her need to remain hidden.
Memories flickered like flashes of light in his mind. He saw his wife taking care of the twins, tenderly doting on their every need. He saw her, years later, visiting his tombstone. She would visit him at the cemetery, always making sure no one was there to witness. She would hide behind a tree until the family had left, as if to avoid any confrontation, any questions about why she came alone. Her hands would clean the stone, her fingers brushing over his name as if to make sure he was still remembered.
And the blue roses. His favorite flowers, the ones he had never told her about. He had never told her, but somehow, she knew. How? He didn't know, but she always knew. Blue roses—quiet, beautiful, a symbol of something more than just memory. But she didn't bring them here, not now. She didn't stand among the family to honor him.
That puzzled him. Why not? Why hide? She was the daughter-in-law of this family. She should have been there, standing by his mother, by his brother, to accept the honor as his rightful heir. But she stayed away. Always.
One day, as he watched from the shadows, the scene changed. His wife stood, as she always did, behind the tree. But this time, it was different. His sister, his beloved sister, came toward her with purpose, her eyes narrowed as if sensing something beneath the surface. Before he could even react, his sister lunged at his wife, slapping her hard across the cheek. The sound of the impact reverberated in the air, and his wife's face turned a deep shade of red.
She didn't flinch. She didn't cry out. She only touched the spot where his sister's hand had struck, as if the pain was nothing compared to what she had already endured. Her eyes met his sister's, and for a moment, he saw something flicker. Hurt. Regret. The faintest tremor in her gaze.
"What are you doing here?" His sister's voice cut through the silence. "What are you trying to prove?"
The man's stomach twisted, his confusion deepening. Why was his sister so angry? Why lash out at his wife? His younger brother rushed to separate them, his face pale with shock. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment of the situation. Only the frantic grasp of his brother pulling his sister away.
"Irya, please," his brother pleaded. "Calm down."
But Irya wasn't calming down. Her fury was a storm, her words sharp and venomous. "Calm down?" she spat. "What is she doing here? What does she want to show? This is all her fault!"
His heart sank. His sister—his precious sister, the one he had always shielded from the world.
He couldn't understand why his sister hated him, hated her. After all, hadn't his sister always wanted a sister-in-law? Even though he wasn't with his wife all the time, didn't she still visit the family? And they had spent time together occasionally. So why the difference?
What shocked him even more was how his wife reacted. Despite the redness on her cheek, she didn't wince in pain or shout in anger. She didn't raise her voice. Instead, she turned to him, looked at his sister, and softly said, "I... I... I'm sorry."
Hearing those words made his sister even angrier. If his brother hadn't been there to hold her back, he was sure she would have struck his wife again.
"You killed my brother. It's all your fault. You're a jinx!" she screamed.
The man stood there, watching in disbelief. Even after his brother and sister left, he remained fixated on his wife. Why did she keep apologizing? Why? Why did she always say sorry when she didn't need to? It made no sense to him.
He was the one who had sacrificed himself for the country. He had done it willingly, and if given the chance, he would do it all over again. So why was she blaming herself? Why did she feel the need to apologize? He didn't understand any of it.
Even after being struck, his wife didn't show the typical signs of pain. Instead, she walked toward his tomb, bent down, and forced a small, hollow smile—one that was more heartbreaking than any cry. She whispered in a broken voice, "I... exculutive, sir..." She paused, licking her lips, then continued, "...county exculutive, sir... Don't worry. Grandpa and everyone are moving to Paris. I booked everything. After that, they'll live there. Your sister found a boyfriend, you know. She's nice." Her forced laughter followed, a hollow, painful sound. "Haha...haha... it's really good."
It had been a year since he passed, yet she still spoke as if he could hear her. Her attempts to make it sound like a normal conversation, as though he was still alive, only made it worse. It was as if she was trying to hold onto the semblance of him being there.
In the days that followed, he realized his parents had indeed left the country. He could understand why—they couldn't bear the pain of him being gone. With his grandfather bedridden, it made sense that they would leave too. But what troubled him was that his wife still stayed in the same house he had bought for them. She and the children—only the boy and the girl—lived there, just the three of them. In all this time, none of her relatives had visited. Not once.