My wife Charlotte passed away five years ago. Ive raised our daughter Sophie on my own ever since. Tonight, were at my best mate Olivers wedding, celebrating a fresh start.
The reception hall glows with golden light, soft and inviting, casting a warm haze over everything. Sophie grips my hand as we weave through the rows of white chairs. At ten, she has her mothers bright green eyes and that same little furrow between her brows when shes curious. Its just been the two of us since Charlotte died in that car crashfive long years of grief, adjusting, slowly putting the pieces back together. And now here we are, watching Oliver finally marry the woman he loves.
Oliver was my rock when Charlotte was gone. He helped me move into the smaller terrace house in suburban Manchester, fixed the dripping tap, looked after Sophie when I pulled late shifts at the hospital. More like a brother than a friend. When he told me he was getting married, I couldnt have been happier for him.
The ceremony begins with gentle piano music. The guests rise as the bride enters, her face hidden beneath a delicate veil. Sophie leans into me, whispering how beautiful the dress is. I nod and smile, but something uneasy stirs in my chest. The way the bride movesher posture, the tilt of her headfeels strangely familiar.
Then Oliver lifts the veil.
My breath stops. My legs nearly give way. Because staring back at me is Charlotte. My wife. The woman I buried five years ago.
I cant move, cant think. The clapping, the murmured admiration, the vicars voiceit all fades into noise. All I see is her. Charlottes face, Charlottes eyes, Charlottes quiet smile.
“Daddy,” Sophie tugs at my sleeve, her small voice cutting through the haze. “Why is Mummy marrying Uncle Oliver?”
My mouth goes dry. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop the order of service.
It cant be. Charlottes gone. I saw the wreck, identified her body, signed the death certificate. I wept at her funeral. And yet, here she stands in white, holding Olivers hands.
The room suddenly feels too tight, too stifling. Guests whisper behind their hands, some glancing my way.
I dont know if Im losing my mind or if Im the only one seeing this.
My first instinct is to stand and shoutto demand answers, to stop this before it goes further. But Sophies fingers tighten around mine, anchoring me. I cant make a scene, not here, not in front of her. I force myself to stay still as the ceremony continues, every word of the vows cutting deeper.
When the vicar pronounces them husband and wife, and Oliver kisses his bride, my stomach turns. The crowd cheers, dabbing at happy tears. I sit rigid, my thoughts spinning.
At the reception, I avoid the top table, lingering near the bar while Sophie nibbles at cake. Up close, the resemblance is even more unsettling. The bride laughs with Oliver, her voice almost identical to Charlottesjust slightly deeper, more measured.
I cant take it anymore. I ask one of the bridesmaids for the brides name.
“Shes Amelia,” she says brightly. “Amelia Hart. She and Oliver met in Bristol a few years back.”
Amelia. Not Charlotte. My mind races. But why does she look exactly like my late wife?
Later, Oliver finds me outside on the patio. “James, you alright? Youve been quiet.”
I force a steady breath. “She looks just like Charlotte.”
He frowns. “Yeah, I thought so too when we first met. It threw me. But Amelia isnt Charlotte, mate. You know that.”
I swallow hard. “Does Sophie know?”
“Shes confused. I thought she might be.” Oliver squeezes my shoulder. “Listen, weve been through hell, you and me. Id never hurt you. Amelia is her own person. Give it time.”
But time doesnt help. When Amelia comes over, she crouches to Sophies level with a warm smile. “You must be Sophie. Your dad talks about you all the time.”
Sophie blinks up at her. “You sound like Mummy.”
Amelia hesitates for just a second before replying, “Thats kind of you to say.”
The look in her eyes lingerslike shes hiding something. And I know I cant let this go.
In the weeks that follow, I barely sleep. I dig through old photo albums, studying Charlottes face, comparing every detail to Amelias. Same cheekbones, same faint scar above her right eyebrow, same dimple. Too much to be chance.
I hire a private investigator. If Amelia is who she claims, the records will prove it. Within days, the PI returns with documentsbirth certificate, school records, driving licenceall legitimate. Amelia Hart, born in Liverpool, 1988. No link to Charlotte.
Still, Im not convinced. I need answers. One evening, when Oliver invites us for dinner, I corner Amelia in the kitchen.
“Who are you really?” I ask, gripping the counter to steady myself.
She tenses. “James, Ive told you”
“No. Youre not just Amelia. You have the same scar as Charlotte, the same laugh, the same” My voice falters. “Dont tell me this is coincidence.”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, I think she might confess. Instead, she murmurs, “Grief does strange things. Maybe youre seeing what you want to see.”
I leave that night more unsettled than ever.
The final straw comes when Sophie wakes from a nightmare, crying. She tells me Amelia came into her dream and tucked her injust like her mother used to. “Daddy,” she sobs, “I think Mummy came back.”
I cant let her live with that confusion.
A week later, I confront Oliver. “I need the truth. Did you know she looked like Charlotte when you married her? Did you ever wonder if she could be her?”
Olivers face hardens. “James, youre out of line. Charlottes gone. Amelia is my wife. You have to let this go before it ruins you.”
Then Amelia walks in. She glances between us, her expression strained. Finally, she speaks, her voice quiet but firm:
“Theres something I havent told either of you.”
The room falls silent. My heart pounds. Sophie peers in from the hallway, wide-eyed, as Amelia takes a deep breath.
“Im not Charlotte,” she says slowly. “But I knew her. Better than you think.”
Her words shatter everything I thought I knew. And I realise the story of Charlottes deathand the life she might have had beyond meis far from over.
