The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

had still betrayed me. My father was still buried beneath the magnolia tree he loved.

But the house was safe.

The roses were safe.

And for the first time since the funeral, so was I.

That afternoon, I trimmed the white roses again. Slowly. Precisely. The way my father taught me.

When a thorn caught my glove, I did not pull away.

I smiled.

Because some pain continue reading …