A young woman. Dark hair. Bright eyes. A smile wide enough to stop traffic.
Margaret’s hand froze midair.
The blood drained from her face so fast she swayed.
“No,” she whispered.
The man frowned. “Are you alright?”
She wasn’t listening.
Her eyes were locked on that photo as if it had just climbed out of a grave.
“Why,” she said, her voice splitting down the middle, “do you have my daughter’s picture in your wallet?”
“THAT’S MY WIFE.”
The man instinctively pulled the wallet closer to his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“My daughter,” Margaret said. The coins in her cup rattled as her hands shook. “Emily. That’s Emily.”
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “this is my wife.”
“Your wife is dead!” Margaret’s voice broke open. Heads turned across the street. “She died five years ago. The police told me—”
“Stop.” He raised his hand, trying to hold onto composure. “My wife is alive. I had breakfast with her this morning.”
Margaret’s body folded inward as sobs tore through her—loud, unfiltered, years of grief collapsing at once.
“A mother knows her child’s face,” she choked. “I carried her. I raised her. I buried an empty casket because they never found her body.”
Leave a Comment