28October2025 Diary
The cab pulled up to the house and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw my missing wifes silhouette in the upstairs window.
Enough! I snarled, flinging the photo onto the kitchen table. My voice shook. Its been eighteen months, Emma. Shes not coming back.
Inspector Margaret Hughes, the local constable, lifted the picture delicately and slipped it back into her folder. MrHawthorne, were closing the file. By law the period has passed to declare Vera Sinclair officially missing.
You mean dead, I muttered, a bitter grin flickering across my face.
I didnt say that, she replied softly, handing me a form. Just sign here, please.
I took the pen, stared at the paper for a few seconds, then signed in a sweeping motion.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
MrHawthorne, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, I said, rubbing my eyes wearily. Sorry. Every time you bring that folder, the sleepless nights, the memories start all over again.
I understand, she nodded. But if anything comes to mind that could help
Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and rose. In my experience, people have turned up after three, even five years.
Have you ever had a case where a wife simply left for someone else without a word? I snapped.
She was silent a moment, then answered, Yes. But usually they leave a note.
When the constables door shut, I sank into my armchair and closed my eyes. Eighteen months had passed since Vera walked out and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was switched off, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had slipped through the earth.
Id tried everythingpolice, private investigators, classified ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew anything.
The first few months were the worst: endless interrogations (the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hopes. Then came a numbness, a dull ache in my chest, and a flood of unanswered questions. Why didnt I notice? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Maybe she was alive but couldnt contact me? I tried not to think about it.
A phone rang, jolting me from the gloom. It was the dispatch office.
Hey, Hawthorne? the tired voice of the dispatcher, Tamara, said. Can you start early tomorrow? MrPetersons blood pressures spiking and weve got a backlog of bookings.
Sure, I replied, rubbing my nose. What time?
Sixam, first run to the airport.
I took the shift three months after Vera disappeared. Id lost my engineering jobmy boss tried to accommodate me, but endless unpaid leave finally wore him out. I couldnt focus on designs or calculations any longer.
Driving a cab turned out to be the perfect compromise. Its a handson job that needs concentration but not deep mental strain. No attachmentspassengers come and go, stories flicker past, and the only responsibility is to get someone from pointA to pointB.
Morning routine was the same as always: up at five, cold shower, strong tea. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirrora gaunt face, a touch of grey at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking fifty.
The first passenger was a stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He rattled on about a trip to Manchester, an overbearing motherinlaw, and a boss who thinks hes a king. I nodded, gave the occasional right, but my mind was elsewhere.
The day unfolded normally: the train station, the shopping centre, the business park, back to the station. By evening I was exhausted, but the dispatcher sent one more job.
Colin, we need you from River Street to Greenfield Estate. Last one for today, passenger waiting.
I sighed, entered the address into the satnav, and set off.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who whined relentlessly, refusing to sit.
Michael, please, she pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shouted. I want to go to Grandmas!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now, we need to get home.
I waited patiently as they settled. The ride promised to be taxing; the boy kept whining, his mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally got into the back seat. Its been a rough day.
No problem, I replied, tapping the meter. Greenfield Estate, Larch Road, number17, right?
Exactly.
Traffic snarled after a minor crash in the city centre, leaving us stuck for almost an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. I turned on some soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally emerged from the jam, dusk had fallen, a light drizzle began, and puddles reflected the streetlights. I drove carefully, the headache in my temple growing.
Greenfield Estate was on the outskirtsa spread of new flats, tall blocks still halffinished, generic and soulless. I rarely ventured here; the concrete towers never felt like home.
There, the mother said as we turned into the courtyard, to the third door on the left, please.
I obeyed, stopped in front of a plain seventeenstorey block and announced, Thatll be £4.20.
She handed me a fivepound note. Keep the change. Thanks for your patience.
Thank you, I said, offering to help with the child.
She opened the rear door, lifted the sleeping boy, and handed him to me. Ill take him, thanks.
I cradled the little one while she paid and gathered her bags. She hesitated, then said, Ill take him home myself.
I stepped back into the cab, ready to leave, but the rain made me linger. I watched as she struggled with the heavy door, then pressed the button to start the engine. My eyes were drawn to a window on the third floorlight was on. A female silhouette flickered in the glow.
My heart thumped, then raced. I recognized the profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was Vera.
I cant recall how I left the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the building. It was as if a haze lifted and I was drawn forward. The lift was out of order, so I sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, to the third floor. Four doors stared back at me. I counted from the left; the second was the one.
I pressed the buzzer. The silence stretched, my pulse thudding in my ears. After a long, torturous pause, footsteps approached and the door opened.
A man in his forties, wearing pajama trousers and a Tshirt, stood there, looking bewildered.
Can I help you? he asked.
I opened my mouth, but the words stuck. Where is she? Vera Sinclair?
He frowned. Who?
Im looking for my wife, Vera Sinclair. She disappeared eighteen months ago.
He shook his head. Theres no Vera Sinclair here. Youve got the wrong address.
I tried to push the door closed, but he held it. Wait! I saw her just now, in the window. Im not crazy.
He hesitated, then the door swung wider. Behind him stood a woman holding a sleepy toddlerexactly the passenger Id just dropped off.
What are you doing here, driver? she asked, eyes narrowing.
I saw my wife in your window, I repeated, voice cracking. Vera Sinclair, dark hair to her shoulders, a mole above her right brow.
The couple exchanged a look. Theres no Vera here, the man said, his tone defensive. Were the Harris familyme, Tom, my wife Lena, and our son.
My wifes name is Vera. Shes the one with the mole.
Lenas eyebrows rose. Youre the cabbie who just dropped us off?
Yes, I said, desperation rising. I swear I saw her. Shes my wife.
Toms face hardened. Theres noone named Vera living with us. This is Lena, and our mother, Margaret, whos staying with us after her husband died.
Your mother? I asked, bewildered. Can I speak to her?
Tom shook his head. Shes unwell. It wont help.
Please, I pleaded. Just a minute. If she isnt my wife Ill leave and never bother you again.
Lena hesitated, then placed a hand on Toms shoulder. Alright. One minute. What do you want?
They led me into a modest hallway. Lena took the boy to another room, while Tom guided me toward a closed door. He knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer, shutting the door behind him.
From the other side I heard muffled conversation, but couldnt make out the words. After a moment Tom emerged, his expression tense.
You may go in, he said. But dont upset her.
Inside the small bedroom, a modest bed, a dresser, and a few photographs filled the space. A chair by the window held a woman staring out at the rain. She turned as I entered, and my breath caught.
Verathough her hair was now cropped short and she looked thinner, the mole was unmistakable, the scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall was still there, and her green eyes flickered with something familiar.
Vera, I whispered.
She stared, confused. Im sorry, you must have the wrong person. My name is Margaret.
Her voice was hers, but the tone was strange, as if someone else were speaking through her.
Vera, its me, Colin, I said, stepping closer, my knees wobbling. Your husband.
She frowned, a flash of alarm crossing her face. Serg? Who are you?
Tom, who had followed me in, placed a hand on my shoulder. Sir, youre causing a scene.
I tried again. Remember the night at the park? You spilled ice cream on my shirt and I joked that youd have to marry me to wash it out. You laughed.
A tiny hesitation flickered in her eyes, then she shook her head. I dont know you. Im Margaret Sinclair. Im Lenas mother.
I pressed on, listing detailsher fear of heights, her love of strawberry ice cream, the scar on her chin. She lifted a hand to the scar, as if checking.
Lena entered, tears welling, and said, Mum, youre talking to a stranger.
Tom interjected, Weve taken her in after she was found unconscious near the North Bridge. Shed no memory of who she was. Weve been caring for her as our own.
I felt the world tilt. My wife, amnesiac, living as someone elses mother.
Can we can we talk? I asked, voice hoarse.
Tom sighed. Shes not in any condition to make decisions. If she wants to leave with you, shell need time.
I nodded, tears spilling. Im grateful you kept her safe. Shes my wife, and I want her back.
Lena sobbed, clinging to her mother. We love her. Michael thinks shes his grandma now.
Tom placed a gentle hand on my arm. Its up to her. If she chooses to be with you, we wont stand in the way.
VeraMargaret stared at me, bewildered, her breath shallow. I I dont remember.
I sat beside her, took her hand, and whispered, Well figure it out together. One day at a time.
The night ended with a fragile promise. I left the house, glancing back at the lit window on the third floor. In that pane, Veras silhouette lingered, looking down at me. I raised my hand in a silent farewell, and it felt as if she answered with a faint wave.
Tomorrow will be another daynew beginnings, old love rediscovered. First, Ill call Inspector Hughes and tell her the case cant be closed yet. Sometimes, even after a year and a half, whats lost can be found, if only by chance, by a cab ride, by a glance through a window.
For now, Im heading home, heart a little lighter, the rain finally stopped, and the sky is beginning to show stars.
Colin.
