The sand was warm beneath my feet as I watched my five-year-old son, Luke, chase seagulls along the shore. It had been two months since we buried his mother—my wife, Stacey. The grief still clung to us like a shadow, but this trip was supposed to help us heal.
Then Luke froze mid-step, his tiny finger pointing toward the water. “Daddy, look!” His voice was breathless with excitement. “It’s Mommy!”
My heart stopped.
I turned slowly, half-expecting to see a stranger who resembled her. But there she was—Stacey, standing just a few yards away, her chestnut hair blowing in the ocean breeze. She looked exactly as I remembered, down to the way she tucked a loose strand behind her ear.
Luke sprinted toward her before I could react. “Mommy!” he cried.
But Stacey’s face twisted in panic. She grabbed the arm of the man beside her, and within seconds, they vanished into the crowd.
I carried a sobbing Luke back to our hotel, my mind racing. How was this possible? I had attended her funeral. I had seen the casket.
That night, I called Stacey’s parents, demanding the truth. After hours of denials, her mother finally broke. “She didn’t die in that accident,” she whispered. “She… she wanted out.”
Out of our marriage. Out of motherhood. Out of the life we’d built together.
The next morning, Stacey found me alone on the beach. “I’m pregnant,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “It’s not yours.”
She had staged her death with her parents’ help, leaving me to mourn a ghost while she started fresh with someone else.
As I packed our bags to leave, Luke clutched my leg. “Why can’t Mommy come home?”
I knelt beside him, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “Because some people leave, buddy. But I never will.”
