Oliver hurried home like never before. And for good reason—something extraordinary had been unfolding in their flat these past few days. Just yesterday, his wife, Emily, had suddenly… made a roast dinner. At first glance, it might seem ordinary—what’s so special about a wife cooking supper? But not for them.
For a year and a half, Emily had been a shadow of herself. After the tragedy that tore their only daughter from them, it was as if she had died too. Sophie had been killed at a pedestrian crossing—just seventeen, barely starting her life, just enrolled at university, bright and beautiful… And then—a car. Emptiness. They had no other children. They’d wanted more, had tried, but with no luck. They’d accepted it. They’d told themselves: one daughter was blessing enough, there’d be grandchildren someday…
But Sophie’s death shattered Emily. She stopped seeing the world—not her husband, not the sun, not even herself. She lay in bed for hours, unmoving. Didn’t bathe, didn’t eat, didn’t speak. She quit her job because the smiles of coworkers only brought more pain. A black headscarf became a permanent fixture on her head, and silence settled over the house—heavy as grief.
Oliver tried talking, pleading, urging her out of that pit of despair. Eventually, he grew weary and moved to the sofa. Her mother, grey-haired and exhausted from helplessness, tried to break through: “You’re still young, just 36, and he’s 40. You’ve got your whole lives ahead… And yet you’re burying yourself alive.”
Nothing worked. It was as if Emily was waiting—for something, or someone.
And then… She was washing the window. No tears. Still in that black scarf, but with a flicker of life in her eyes. And then she spoke: “I’ve made jacket potatoes with mushrooms. Go wash your hands—we’ll have supper.”
Oliver froze. He couldn’t believe his ears. Something was shifting.
At first, cautiously—Emily began stepping outside, visiting relatives. Then came smiles, rare but real. For her nephew’s wedding, she shed her mourning clothes, cut her hair, put on makeup. She bought a dress. They took a trip to a seaside resort—sunshine, crashing waves, warm evenings, all of it breathing life back into them. There, they had a second honeymoon. Awkward, giggly, just like when they were young. They laughed, they kissed… And there, Emily dreamed of Sophie for the first time. Their daughter was radiant, joyful:
“Mummy, we’ll be together again soon. Just wait a little longer…”
When she woke, Emily knew—her time was coming. It didn’t frighten her. But she said nothing to Oliver—why alarm him?
Back home, she was invited to return to work—her colleague had retired. A few months later, a routine check-up at the office. Emily had been feeling weak but kept quiet.
During the ultrasound, the young doctor suddenly grinned. “Congratulations. It’s a girl!”
Emily thought she’d misheard. “My heart?”
“Yours too. But that’s your daughter’s heartbeat you’re hearing,” the doctor laughed, calling Oliver in. “Dad, meet your little girl.”
They held each other and wept.
The pregnancy passed with astonishing ease. Emily floated as if on wings. In due time, a girl was born. From the first second, her mother knew—she was the very image of Sophie. She wanted to name her the same, but relatives talked her out of it: “A name can carry a fate with it…”
They called her Grace—”God’s gift.”
Now Grace is five. She grows more like Sophie every day—not just in looks, but in spirit. The same smile, the same favourite dolls, songs, dances. The same quiet light in her eyes.
And Oliver and Emily? They’ve come back to life. They laugh. They breathe. Their home is full of happiness again, ringing with a child’s laughter. And in their hearts—gratitude and love.
Life returned. And stayed.
