Five years ago, I lost my wife, Charlotte. Since then, its just been me and our daughter, Sophie. We were at my best mate Olivers weddingsupposed to be a cheerful new chapter for everyone.
The venue shimmered with golden light, the sort that makes even awkward family reunions look heartwarming. Sophie, now ten, clung to my hand as we took our seats. She had her mothers big green eyes and that same little furrow between her brows when she was puzzled. After Charlottes car accident, it had been just the two of usfive years of figuring things out, one mismatched sock at a time. And tonight? Tonight was about fresh starts. Oliver, the bloke whod been more like a brother than a mate, was finally tying the knot.
When Charlotte died, Oliver was the one who helped me move into a smaller place in suburban Manchester, fixed my dodgy boiler, and babysat Sophie when my shifts at the hospital ran late. So when he announced his engagement, I was chuffed for him.
The ceremony began with gentle piano notes. The bride glided in, her face hidden beneath a lace veil. Sophie nudged me. “Her dress is proper lovely,” she whispered. I nodded, but a weird prickling sensation crept up my spine. There was something about the way the bride movedthe way she tilted her headthat felt unsettlingly familiar.
Then Oliver lifted the veil.
The air left my lungs in one go. My legs nearly gave out. Because staring back at me was Charlotte. My wife. The woman wed buried half a decade ago.
I couldnt blink. Couldnt breathe. The applause, the vicars words, the rustling of programsit all faded into white noise. All I could see was her. Charlottes face, Charlottes smile, Charlottes *aliveness*.
“Daddy,” Sophie tugged my sleeve, her voice small. “Whys Mum marrying Uncle Oliver?”
My mouth went drier than a stale biscuit. The wedding programme trembled in my hands.
This couldnt be real. Id seen the crash. Identified her body. Signed the paperwork. Wept at her funeral. And yet, there she stood, in a white gown, holding Olivers hands.
The room suddenly felt claustrophobic. Guests whispered behind their hands, casting glances my way. Was I the only one seeing this? Was I losing it?
My first urge was to bolt up and demand answers. But Sophies grip tightened around mine, anchoring me. I couldnt make a scenenot here, not now. So I sat, stiff as a board, while the vows cut into me like broken glass.
When they were pronounced husband and wife, and Oliver kissed his bride, my stomach lurched. Everyone clapped, cheered, dabbed at happy tears. Meanwhile, I sat there, a coiled spring of disbelief.
At the reception, I avoided the top table, hovering near the bar instead, keeping Sophie occupied with fairy cakes and lemonade while my eyes stayed glued to the couple. Up close, the resemblance was even more uncanny. The bride laughed*exactly* like Charlotte, just with a slightly deeper pitch.
I had to know. I asked a bridesmaid, “Whats the brides name?”
“Harriet,” she beamed. “Harriet Whitmore. She and Oliver met in Bristol, I think.”
Harriet. Not Charlotte. My brain scrambled to process it. But why did Harriet look *exactly* like my late wife?
Later, Oliver found me on the terrace. “James, you alright? Youve been quiet.”
I forced a laugh. “She looks *just like Charlotte*.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it threw me too when we first met. But Harriets not Charlotte, mate. You know that.”
My throat tightened. “Does Sophie know?”
“Shes confused. I thought she might be.” Oliver squeezed my shoulder. “Listen, after everything weve been throughId never hurt you. Harriets her own person. Give it time.”
But time didnt help. When Harriet crouched to talk to Sophie, her voice soft, Sophie blurted, “You sound like Mum.”
Harriets smile faltered for half a second. “Thats very kind of you to say.”
The look in her eyesguarded, almost guiltyhaunted me. I couldnt let it go.
Over the next few weeks, I barely slept. I dug out old photo albums, comparing every freckle, every expression. Same scar above her right brow. Same dimple. It was too much to be chance.
I hired a private investigator. If Harriet was who she claimed, the records would prove it. The PI came back with paperworkbirth certificate, school records, driving licenceall legit. Harriet Whitmore, born in Newcastle, 1989. No link to Charlotte.
Still, I wasnt convinced. At a dinner party, I cornered Harriet in the kitchen. “Who are you *really*?”
She froze. “James, weve been through this”
“No. Youve got Charlottes scar, her laugh, *her voice*. Dont tell me this is coincidence.”
For a second, her face flickered with something like guilt. But all she said was, “Grief does funny things to people. Maybe youre seeing what you want to see.”
I left that night more rattled than ever.
The final straw came when Sophie woke me with a nightmare. “Harriet was in my dream,” she sobbed. “She tucked me in, just like Mum used to. Daddy I think Mum came back.”
I couldnt let her live like this.
A week later, I confronted Oliver. “Did you *know* how much she looks like Charlotte? Did you ever question it?”
His jaw tightened. “James, youre out of line. Charlottes gone. Harriets my wife. Drop it before it ruins you.”
Then Harriet walked in. She glanced between us, hesitating, before finally whispering:
“Theres something I havent told either of you.”
The room went silent. My pulse roared in my ears. Sophie hovered in the doorway, wide-eyed, as Harriet took a shaky breath.
“Im not Charlotte,” she said slowly. “But I knew her. Better than you think.”
Her words split the floor beneath me. And suddenly, I realised the story of Charlottes deathand the life she mightve lived afterwas far from over.
