Oliver hurried home like never before. And for good reason—the past few days in their flat had been utterly extraordinary. Just yesterday, his wife, Evelyn, had suddenly… made a roast dinner. Now, one might think, so what? A wife cooking supper—perfectly normal. But not for them.
For a year and a half, Evelyn had been a mere shadow of herself. After the tragedy that took their only daughter, it was as if she had died alongside her. Charlotte had been killed on a zebra crossing—just seventeen, her life barely begun. She had just started university, bright as a button, with her whole future ahead… and then, a car. Nothing but emptiness. They’d never had other children. They’d tried, sought treatments, but nothing worked. Resigned, they’d told themselves: one daughter was enough—what a blessing. Grandchildren would come in time.
But Charlotte’s death shattered Evelyn. She stopped seeing the world—her husband, the sun, even herself. She lay for hours, unmoving. Didn’t wash, didn’t eat, didn’t speak. She quit her job because the smiles of colleagues stung like salt in a wound. A black headscarf became a permanent fixture, and the house fell into silence—thick, suffocating grief.
Oliver tried to talk, to reason, to pull her out of that pit. Eventually, he gave up and moved to the sofa. Her mother, grey-haired and weary from helplessness, pleaded, “You’re young—just thirty-six. He’s forty. You’ve got your whole lives ahead… and you’re burying yourself alive.”
Nothing worked. Evelyn seemed to be waiting—for something, or someone.
And now… she was cleaning the window. No tears. Still in that black scarf, but with a spark in her eyes. She even said:
“I fried some potatoes with mushrooms. Go wash up—supper’s ready.”
Oliver froze. He couldn’t believe his ears. Something was shifting.
At first, timidly—Evelyn started going outside, visiting family. Then came smiles, rare but real. For her nephew’s wedding, she swapped her mourning clothes, had her hair cut, even put on makeup. She bought a dress. They went to a seaside retreat—sunshine, waves, warm evenings, all of it breathing life back into them. It was like a second honeymoon, giddy and awkward, just like when they were young. They laughed, kissed… and there, for the first time, Evelyn dreamt of Charlotte. Their daughter was radiant, joyful.
“Mum, we’ll be together again soon. Just a little longer…”
Waking, Evelyn knew—she wouldn’t be here much longer. It didn’t frighten her. But she said nothing to Oliver—why worry him?
Back home, she was invited to return to work—her colleague had retired. A few months later, the company arranged a health check. Evelyn felt weak but kept quiet.
At the ultrasound, the young doctor suddenly grinned.
“Congratulations. It’s a girl!”
Evelyn thought she’d misheard.
“My heart?”
“Yours too. But that’s your daughter’s heartbeat,” the doctor laughed, calling Oliver in. “Dad, meet your little girl.”
They embraced, both in tears.
The pregnancy was surprisingly smooth. Evelyn floated, weightless. A girl arrived right on time. From the first second, Evelyn knew—her spitting image of Charlotte. She wanted the same name, but family warned, “Names carry fate…”
They called her Beatrice—”She who brings happiness.”
Now Beatrice is five, growing more like Charlotte every day—not just in looks but in spirit. The same smile, the same love for dolls, songs, dancing. The same quiet light in her eyes.
And Evelyn and Oliver? They’ve come alive. They laugh. They breathe. Their home brims with joy, filled with a child’s laughter. In their hearts—nothing but love and gratitude.
Life returned. And stayed.
