Henry hurried home faster than ever before. And no wonder – lately, something extraordinary had been happening in their flat. Just the day before, Emma, his wife, had… made a roast dinner. You might think, so what? A wife cooking supper – nothing unusual. But not for them.
For a year and a half, Emma had been a shadow of herself. After the tragedy that took their only daughter, she seemed to wilt away with grief. Charlotte had been killed at a pedestrian crossing—only seventeen, just starting university, bright and beautiful… Then—a car. And emptiness. They’d had no other children. They’d wanted more, tried, but it never happened. They made peace with it. One daughter was enough—they’d have grandchildren someday, they thought.
But Charlotte’s death broke Emma. She stopped seeing the world—her husband, the sun, even herself. She lay for hours, unmoving. Wouldn’t wash, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak. She quit her job because the smiles of her colleagues hurt too much. A black headscarf settled permanently on her head, and silence filled their home—thick as grief itself.
Henry tried talking, pleading, coaxing, pulling her out of that pit. Then he grew weary and moved to the sofa. Her mother, grey-haired and worn from helplessness, tried to reach her: “You’re young, only thirty-six, he’s forty. You’ve got your whole life ahead… and you’re burying yourself.”
But it was no use. Emma was waiting—for something, or someone.
And then… she was washing the windows. No tears. Still in that black headscarf, but with a light in her eyes. She even spoke:
“I’ve made sausages and mash. Go wash up—we’re having supper.”
Henry froze. He couldn’t believe his ears. Something was changing.
At first, carefully—Emma began stepping outside, visiting family. Then came smiles, rare but real. At her nephew’s wedding, she shed her mourning clothes, trimmed her hair, put on makeup. Bought a dress. They took a holiday to the seaside. The sun, the sound of waves, warm evenings—it all brought them back to life. It was their second honeymoon. Awkward, sweet, like when they were young. They laughed, kissed… And there, for the first time, Emma dreamt of Charlotte. Their daughter was radiant, joyful:
“Mum, we’ll be together again soon. Just wait a little longer…”
When she woke, Emma knew—her time was near. It didn’t frighten her. But she didn’t tell Henry—why trouble him?
Back home, her old colleague retired, and she was asked to return to work. A few months later, the company held medical check-ups. Emma had been feeling weak but stayed quiet.
At the ultrasound, the young doctor suddenly smiled.
“Congratulations. You’re having a girl!”
Emma thought she’d misheard.
“My heart?”
“Yours too. But that’s your daughter’s heartbeat,” the doctor laughed, calling Henry in. “Dad, meet your little girl.”
They embraced, both in tears.
The pregnancy passed smoothly—Emma seemed to float on air. In time, a girl was born. From the first second, her mother knew—she was the image of Charlotte. She wanted to name her the same, but family talked her out of it: “Names carry fates…”
They called her Grace—God’s gift.
Now Grace is five. She looks more like Charlotte every day—not just her face, but her spirit. The same smile, the same love for dolls, songs, dancing. The same quiet light in her eyes.
And Emma and Henry—they’ve come alive again. Living. Laughing. Breathing. Their home is full of happiness once more, filled with a child’s laughter. And in their hearts—gratitude, and love.
Life came back. And stayed.
