My wife Sophie passed away five years ago. Ive been raising our daughter Lily on my own ever since. We went to my best mate Olivers weddingsupposed to be a fresh start, you know?
The reception hall was bathed in this warm, golden light, the kind that makes everything feel soft and a bit dreamy. Lily held my hand as we walked toward the rows of chairs. Shes ten now, with her mums big green eyes and that same little furrow between her brows when shes curious. Its just been the two of us since Sophie died in that car crash. Five years of trying to piece things back together. And tonight? Well, it was meant to be a happy occasion. Oliver, my best friend since uni, was finally settling down.
Oliver was my rock when Sophie died. Helped me move into that smaller place in Manchester, fixed the dodgy tap, looked after Lily when I pulled late shifts at the hospital. More like family, really. So when he told me he was getting married, I was proper chuffed for him.
The ceremony started with this gentle piano music. Everyone stood as the bride walked in, her face hidden under this long veil. Lily nudged me, whispering about how pretty the dress was. I nodded, smiling, but thensomething about the way the bride moved, the tilt of her headit set off this weird feeling in my chest. Like I knew her.
Then Oliver lifted the veil.
I swear, the air left my lungs. My legs nearly gave out. Because staring back at me was Sophie. My wife. The woman we buried five years ago.
I couldnt move. Couldnt think. The room spunthe clapping, the vicars voice, all of it just noise. All I saw was her. Sophies face, Sophies smile.
Daddy, Lily tugged my sleeve, her voice small. Whys Mummy marrying Uncle Oliver?
My mouth went dry. My hands shook so bad I nearly dropped the order of service.
It couldnt be. Id seen the crash. Identified her. Signed the papers. Cried at her funeral. And yetthere she was, in white, holding Olivers hands.
The room felt too tight, like the walls were closing in. People were whispering, shooting glances my way.
For a second, I wondered if Id lost the plot.
Part of me wanted to stand up and yell. Demand answers. Stop the whole thing. But Lilys grip on my hand kept me grounded. I couldnt make a scenenot here, not in front of her. So I sat there, stiff as a board, while they said their vows, every word like a knife.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, and Oliver kissed her, I felt sick. Everyone cheered, wiped away happy tears. Meanwhile, I was sat there, numb, my head spinning.
At the reception, I avoided the top table. Hung back by the bar, keeping Lily busy with cake and lemonade while I watched the couple. Up close, the resemblance was even worse. The bride laughed, her voice so like Sophiesjust a touch different, maybe.
I had to know. I asked one of the bridesmaids, Whats the brides name?
Charlotte, she said, smiling. Charlotte Harris. She and Oliver met in Bristol, I think.
Charlotte. Not Sophie. My brain clung to that. But why did she look exactly like my wife?
Later, Oliver found me outside. James, you alright? Youve been quiet.
I tried to keep my voice steady. She looks just like Sophie.
He sighed. Yeah, I thought that too when we first met. Freaked me out a bit. But Charlottes not Sophie, mate. You know that.
I swallowed hard. Does Lily know?
Shes confused. I figured she might be. Oliver squeezed my shoulder. Listen, weve been through hell, you and me. Id never hurt you. Charlottes her own person. Give it time.
But time didnt help. When Charlotte came over, she crouched to Lilys level. You must be Lily. Your dad talks about you all the time.
Lily stared at her. You sound like Mummy.
Charlotte hesitatedjust for a secondbefore smiling. Thats sweet of you to say.
The look in her eyes? Haunted me. Like she was hiding something. And I knew I couldnt let it go.
For weeks, I barely slept. Dug out old photos, comparing every detailsame cheekbones, same tiny scar above her eyebrow, same dimple. Too much to be chance.
I hired a private investigator. If Charlotte was who she said, the records would prove it. And they didbirth certificate, school records, everything. Charlotte Harris, born in Liverpool, 1988. No link to Sophie.
Still, I wasnt convinced. Needed the truth. One night, when Oliver had us over for dinner, I cornered Charlotte in the kitchen.
Who are you really? I asked, gripping the counter.
She froze. James, Ive told you
No. Youre not just Charlotte. Youve got Sophies scar, her laughdont tell me thats a coincidence.
Her expression softened, just for a second. Grief does strange things. Maybe youre seeing what you want to see.
I left that night more rattled than ever.
The final straw? Lily had a nightmare, crying that Charlotte had tucked her injust like Sophie used to. Daddy, she sobbed, I think Mummy came back.
I couldnt let her live like that.
A week later, I confronted Oliver. Did you know? Before you married her, did you ever think?
Olivers face went hard. James, youre out of line. Sophies gone. Charlottes my wife. You need to let this go.
Then Charlotte walked in. She looked between us, her face torn. Finally, she took a breath.
Theres something I havent told you.
The room went dead silent. My heart pounded. Lily peeked from the hallway as Charlotte spoke, slow and quiet.
Im not Sophie. But I knew her. Better than you think.
Her words shattered everything. And I realisedthe story of Sophies death, and the life she mightve had after, wasnt over. Not even close.
