**Diary Entry 12th March**
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Daddy, that waitress looks just like Mummy! My breath caught. I turned sharplyand froze. My wife was gone. Had been for two years.
It was a dreary Saturday morning in London, rain tapping against the windows of a quiet little café tucked away on a side street near Notting Hill. My daughter, Sophie, walked beside me, her small hand tucked into mine. I hadnt smiled much since Emma passedtaken from us in a bloody awful car crash. Life without her laughter, without her warmth, had become hollow.
We slid into a booth by the window. I barely glanced at the menu, too tired from another sleepless night. Across from me, Sophie hummed softly, fiddling with the hem of her blue cardigan. Then, out of nowhere
Daddy that waitress looks just like Mummy.
The words hit me like a bolt of lightning.
What did you say, love?
Sophie pointed. There.
I turnedand my blood ran cold.
A few feet away, a woman was chatting with a customer. She was the spitting image of Emma. Same warm hazel eyes. Same effortless grace. Same dimples when she smiled. But it couldnt be. Id seen Emmas body. Id buried her.
Yet there she wasalive.
She noticed me staring. For a split second, her smile faltered. Recognitionor fearflashed in her eyes before she vanished into the kitchen.
My heart hammered. Was it really her? Or some cruel trick of fate?
Stay here, Sophie, I muttered.
I pushed past confused diners, heading for the kitchen, but a staff member blocked my path.
Sir, you cant go back there.
I need to speak to that waitressthe one in the white blouse, dark hair.
After a moments hesitation, the bloke stepped aside.
Minutes dragged. Finally, she emerged. Up close, the resemblance was uncanny.
Can I help you? she asked, guarded.
Her voice was differentlowerbut those eyes were unmistakable.
Im sorry, I stammered. You look exactly like someone I knew.
She gave a polite smile. Happens more often than youd think.
I swallowed. Did you know Emma Whitmore?
A flicker in her gaze. No. Sorry.
I pulled out a business card. If you think of anything, please call.
She didnt take it. Have a good day, sir.
But I saw itthe slight tremble in her fingers, the way she bit her lip, just like Emma used to.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. I sat by Sophies bed, watching her breathe, replaying it all. If it wasnt Emma, why had she looked so startled?
A quick search turned up nothingno photos, no recordsjust a name. Another server had called her Claire.
Claire.
Too neat. Too deliberate.
I rang a private investigator.
I need everything on a woman named Claire, works at that café near Notting Hill. No surname yet. She looks exactly like my wifewhos supposed to be dead.
Three days later, the call came.
Edward, your wife didnt die in that crash.
Ice flooded my veins.
What?
Traffic cams show someone else driving. Emma was a passenger, but her body was never confirmed. The ID matched, but dental records didnt. And Claire? Her real names Emma Hartley. Changed it six months after the accident.
My world tilted.
Emma was alive. Hiding.
That night, I paced, one question gnawing at me: *why?*
Next morning, I returned alone. When she saw me, she stiffenedbut didnt run. She signalled to a colleague, then led me outside to a bench beneath a gnarled oak.
Knew youd find me eventually, she said softly.
I stared. Why, Emma? Why let us think you were dead?
She looked away. I didnt plan it. I was meant to be in that car, but I swapped last minuteSophie had a cold. The crash happened hours later. The ID, the clothesthey were mine.
So everyone thought youd died.
She nodded. When I saw the news I panicked. For a moment, it felt like a way out.
Out of what? My voice cracked. *Us?*
No. Not you. Her fingers twisted in her lap. The lifethe cameras, the money, the bloody expectations. I forgot who I was outside of being Mrs. Whitmore.
I was silent, gutted.
She wiped her eyes. Seeing the funeral, you and Sophie grieving I wanted to scream. But it was too late. And when I saw Sophie, I knew Id failed her.
I exhaled slowly. I loved you. Still do. Sophie remembers you. She said you looked like Mummy. What do I tell her?
Emma swallowed hard. Tell her I made a mistake.
I shook my head. No. Come home. Tell her yourself.
That evening, I brought Emma back.
When Sophie saw her, she gaspedthen flew into her arms.
Mummy? she whispered, clinging tight.
Emma sobbed. Yes, darling. Im here.
I watched, heart breaking and mending at once.
In the weeks that followed, we sorted the legal mess quietly. No headlines, no fussjust bedtime stories and slow healing.
Emma started finding herself againnot as the woman shed been, but the one she chose to be.
One night, after tucking Sophie in, I asked, Why now? Why stay?
She met my gaze. Because this time, I remembered who I am.
I raised a brow.
Not just Emma Hartley the waitress, or Mrs. Whitmore the millionaires wife. Im a mother. A woman who lost her wayand finally had the courage to come back.
I kissed her forehead, holding her hand tight.
This time, she didnt let go.
**Lesson learned:** Some mistakes can be undone. Some wounds can heal. And sometimes, home isnt a placeits the people you fight to keep.
