James hurried home faster than ever before. And who could blame him? For the past few days, something extraordinary had been happening in their flat. Just yesterday, Emily, his wife, had suddenly… made a roast dinner. It might not sound like much—just a wife cooking a meal—but in their household, it was anything but ordinary.
For a year and a half, Emily had been a ghost of herself. After the tragedy that robbed them of their only daughter, she had seemed to die alongside her. Little Sophie had been killed on a pedestrian crossing—just seventeen, barely starting her life, accepted into university, bright and beautiful… And then—a car. And emptiness. They’d never had more children. They’d tried, sought treatment, but nothing worked. They’d accepted it. They told themselves—one daughter was enough, a blessing.
But Sophie’s death broke Emily. She stopped seeing the world—her husband, the sun, even herself. She lay in bed for hours, unmoving. Didn’t wash, didn’t eat, didn’t speak. She left her job because her colleagues’ smiles felt like daggers. A black headscarf clung to her like a shadow, and silence settled in the house—thick, like grief itself.
James tried speaking to her, persuading her, pulling her out of that dark hole. Eventually, he gave up and moved to the sofa. Her mother, grey-haired and worn thin from helplessness, pleaded with her: “You’re young. You’re 36, he’s 40. You’ve got your whole lives ahead… and you’re already in the grave.”
Nothing worked. Emily seemed to be waiting—for something, or someone.
And now… she was washing the windows. No tears. The same black scarf, but with a spark in her eyes. She even spoke: “I’ve made mashed potatoes with sausages. Wash your hands—we’re having dinner.”
James froze. He couldn’t believe his ears. Something was shifting.
At first, it was small—Emily started stepping outside, visiting family. Then came smiles, rare but real. At her niece’s wedding, she shed her mourning clothes, cut her hair, wore makeup. She bought a dress. They took a holiday to a seaside resort—sunshine, the sound of waves, warm evenings—it all brought them back to life. There, they had a second honeymoon. Awkward, giggly, like teenagers. They laughed, kissed… And there, Emily dreamed of Sophie for the first time. Their daughter was radiant, joyful:
“Mum, we’ll be together again soon. Just wait a little longer…”
When she woke, Emily knew—her time was near. But she didn’t tell James. Why worry him?
Back home, she was asked to return to work—her colleague had retired. A few months later, the company scheduled medical check-ups. Emily had been feeling weak but stayed silent.
At the ultrasound, the young doctor beamed. “Congratulations. You’re having a girl!”
Emily thought she misheard. “My heart?”
“Yours too. But that’s your daughter’s heartbeat.” The doctor laughed and called James in. “Daddy, meet your little girl.”
They clung to each other, both in tears.
The pregnancy was miraculously easy. Emily floated through it. A baby girl arrived right on time. From the first second, Emily knew—she was Sophie’s mirror image. She wanted to name her the same, but relatives warned her: “The name might carry the same fate…”
They called her Grace—”God’s gift.”
Now Grace is five. She looks more like Sophie every day—not just her face, but her spirit. The same smile, the same dolls, songs, dances. The same quiet brightness in her eyes.
And James and Emily? They’ve come alive. They laugh. They breathe. Their home is full of happiness again, echoing with a child’s laughter. And in their hearts—nothing but love.
Life came back. And stayed.
