My wife Charlotte passed away five years ago. I raised our daughter Sophie on my own. We attended my best mate Williams wedding to celebrate a fresh start.
The venue shimmered under warm golden lights, the sort of glow that softened edges and made everything feel dreamlike. Sophie held my hand as we walked toward the rows of white chairs. At ten, she had her mothers large green eyes and the same little crease between her brows when she was curious. It had been just the two of us since Charlotte died in that crash. Five years of grieving, adjusting, learning to carry on. Tonight was meant to be joyfulWilliam, my closest friend, had finally found the woman he wanted to marry.
William had been my anchor when Charlotte was gone. He helped me move into the smaller terraced house in suburban London, fixed the dripping tap, looked after Sophie when I pulled late shifts at the hospital. More like family than a friend. When he told me he was getting married, I was genuinely happy for him.
The ceremony began with gentle piano notes. Guests stood as the bride entered, her face hidden beneath a sheer veil. Sophie rested her head against my arm, whispering how lovely the dress was. I nodded, forcing a smile, but an odd discomfort settled in my chest. The way the bride movedher stride, the way she carried herselfwas eerily familiar.
Then William lifted the veil.
My breath vanished. My legs nearly gave way. Because staring back at me was Charlotte. My wife. The woman wed buried five years ago.
I couldnt move, couldnt think. The room blurredthe applause, the murmurs of admiration, the vicars voicenone of it reached me. All I saw was her. Charlottes face, her eyes, that faint smile.
Daddy, Sophie tugged my sleeve, her small voice piercing the haze. Why is Mummy marrying Uncle William?
My throat closed up. My hands trembled so violently I nearly dropped the order of service.
It wasnt possible. Charlotte was gone. Id seen the wreck, identified her, signed the paperwork. Id wept at her funeral. And yet, here she stood in white, holding Williams hands.
The room suddenly felt cramped, airless. Guests whispered behind their hands, some stealing glances my way.
I didnt know if I was losing my mind or if I was the only one seeing this madness.
My first urge was to stand and shout. Demand answers, stop this before it went further. But Sophies grip on my hand kept me rooted. I couldnt make a scenenot in front of her. I forced myself to stay still as the vows were exchanged, each word cutting like shards of glass.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, and William kissed his bride, nausea twisted in my gut. The crowd cheered, wiped away happy tears. I sat rigid, my thoughts spinning.
At the reception, I avoided the top table, lingering by the bar, keeping Sophie occupied with cake and lemonade while my eyes stayed locked on the couple. Up close, the resemblance was even more uncanny. The bride laughed, her voice almost identical to Charlottesthough perhaps slightly lower, more measured.
I had to know. I asked one of the bridesmaids for the brides name.
Its Victoria, she said brightly. Victoria Hart. She and William met in Manchester, I think.
Victoria. Not Charlotte. My mind reeled. But how could she look exactly like my late wife?
Later, William found me outside on the terrace. Oliver, you all right? Youve been quiet.
I struggled to keep my voice steady. She looks just like Charlotte.
He frowned. Yeah, I thought so too when we first met. It threw me. But Victoria isnt Charlotte, mate. You know that.
I swallowed hard. Does Sophie know?
Shes confused. I thought she might be. William gripped my shoulder. Listen, weve been through hell. Id never hurt you. Victorias her own person. Give it time.
But time didnt help. When Victoria came over, she crouched to Sophies level, smiling. You must be Sophie. Your dad talks about you all the time.
Sophie blinked up at her. You sound like Mummy.
Victoria hesitatedjust for a secondbefore recovering. Well, Im flattered.
The look in her eyes chilled me. Like she was hiding something. I knew then I couldnt let it go.
In the weeks that followed, I barely slept. I pored over old photo albums, comparing every detailCharlottes bone structure, the tiny scar above her right eyebrow, the dimple in her left cheek. It was too much to be chance.
I hired a private investigator. If Victoria was who she claimed, the records would confirm it. Days later, the PI returned with documentsbirth certificate, school records, driving licenceall in order. Victoria Hart, born in Bristol, 1988. No link to Charlotte.
Still, I wasnt convinced. At dinner one evening at Williams, I cornered Victoria in the kitchen.
Who are you really? I asked, gripping the counter to steady myself.
She tensed. Oliver, Ive told you
No. Youre not just Victoria. You have the same scar as Charlotte, the same laugh My voice broke. Dont tell me this is coincidence.
Her expression softened, and for a second, I thought she might confess. Instead, she murmured, Grief does strange things. Maybe youre seeing what you need to see.
I left that night more unsettled than ever.
The final straw came when Sophie woke from a nightmare, crying. She told me Victoria had been in her dream, tucking her injust like her mother used to. Daddy, she sobbed, I think Mummy came back.
I couldnt let my daughter live with that confusion.
A week later, I confronted William. Did you know how much she looks like Charlotte? Did it ever occur to you she might be her?
Williams face darkened. Oliver, youre out of line. Charlottes gone. Victoria is my wife. You need to let this go.
Then Victoria walked in. She glanced between us, her expression conflicted. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper:
Theres something I havent told either of you.
The room fell silent. My pulse pounded in my ears. Sophie peered from the hallway, wide-eyed, as Victoria took a shaky breath.
Im not Charlotte, she said carefully. But I knew her. Better than you realise.
Her words shattered everything. And I understood thenthe story of Charlottes death, and the life she might have lived beyond me, wasnt over.
