I stood beside my sister’s coffin, one hand on the tiny casket ribbon meant for the baby she never got to hold, when her husband walked in with his mistress on his arm.

On the first anniversary of their funeral, I went to the cemetery alone.

The grass had grown soft over both graves. I tied a new pink ribbon around the baby’s stone and laid white lilies beside Maya’s name.

For the first time in a year, the silence did not feel like an open wound.

It felt like peace.

I touched my sister’s headstone and whispered, “I found out.”

Then I stood, my badge warm in my pocket, and walked back into the sunlight.

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