**Diary Entry**
The words struck me like a bolt from the blue. Daddy, that waitress looks just like Mummy! My heart stalled mid-beat as I turned sharplyand there she was. My wife, who Id buried two years ago.
It had been a dreary Saturday morning in London, rain pattering against the pavement as I walked into a cosy little café tucked away on a quiet side street. My daughter, Poppy, clung to my hand, her fingers small and warm. I hadnt smiled properly in agesnot since Eleanor, my beloved wife, was killed in that terrible car crash. Life without her laughter, her presence, had become a hollow existence.
We took a booth by the window. I barely glanced at the menu, my mind adrift, exhaustion weighing me down after another sleepless night. Across from me, Poppy hummed softly, fiddling with the ribbon on her lilac dress.
Then, her voice cut through the hum of the caféquiet but sure. Daddy that waitress looks just like Mummy.
The words took a second to land, but when they did, they hit me like a freight train.
What did you say, love?
Poppy pointed. There.
I turnedand my blood ran cold.
Just a few feet away, a woman chatted with a customer, her smile warm, her eyes bright. She was the spitting image of Eleanor. The same hazel eyes, the same effortless grace, the same dimples that only appeared when she laughed.
But it couldnt be. Id seen Eleanors body. Id held her death certificate.
Yet here she wasalive. Breathing.
I stared too long. She noticed. Her smile faltered, her eyes wideningrecognition? Fear?before she vanished into the kitchen.
My pulse hammered. Was it really her? Some twisted joke? A coincidence? Or something worse?
Stay here, Poppy, I murmured.
I pushed past startled diners, heading for the kitchen, but a staff member blocked me.
Sir, you cant go back there.
I need to speak to the waitressthe one with the blonde plait, cream blouse. Please.
After a hesitation, they relented.
Minutes dragged. Then the door opened, and she stepped out. Up close, the resemblance was chilling.
Can I help you? she asked, cautious.
Her voice was differentlowerbut those eyes unmistakable.
I Im sorry, I stammered. You look exactly like someone I knew.
A polite smile. Happens often.
I studied her. Do you know Eleanor Whitmore?
Her expression flickered. No, sorry.
I pulled out a business card. If you remember anythingcall me.
She didnt take it. Have a lovely day, sir.
And she walked away.
But I saw itthe tremble in her fingers, the way she bit her lip, just like Eleanor used to when she was nervous.
That night, I couldnt sleep.
I sat by Poppys bed, watching her breathe, replaying the encounter. Was it really her? If not, why had she looked so shaken?
Online searches turned up nothingno photos, no staff listingsjust a name: Grace. Another waiter had called her that.
Grace.
A name that felt deliberate.
I rang a private investigator.
I need everything on a woman named Grace, works at a café on Baker Street. No surname yet. She looks exactly like my wifewhos supposed to be dead.
Three days later, the call came.
Edward, I dont think your wife died in that crash.
Ice flooded my veins.
What do you mean?
Traffic cam footage shows someone else driving. Eleanor was a passenger, but her body was never confirmed. The ID matched, but dental records didnt. And Grace? Her real name is Eleanor Hartley. She changed it six months after the accident.
My world tilted.
Eleanor was alive.
Hiding.
Breathing.
The weight of it nearly crushed me.
That night, I paced, consumed by one question: why?
Next morning, I returned alone.
When she saw me, her eyes widened again, but she didnt flee. She whispered to a colleague, removed her apron, and led me outside.
We sat beneath an old oak behind the café.
You know, she said softly, I always wondered when youd find me.
I searched her face. Why, Eleanor? Why fake your death?
She looked away, voice unsteady. I didnt fake it. I was meant to be in that car. But I swapped with a colleague last minutePoppy had a fever. The crash happened hours later. The ID, the clothesthey were mine.
I frowned. So everyone thought you were dead.
She nodded. I saw the news. I froze. For a moment, I thought it was a blessinga way out.
Out of what? My voice cracked. Me?
No. Never you. Her tone was firm. The pressurethe press, the money, the constant performance. I lost myself. I didnt know who I was beyond being your wife.
I sat in stunned silence.
She wiped her tears. Seeing the funeral, you grievingI wanted to scream. But it felt too late. And when I saw Poppy, I knew I didnt deserve her. Id left her.
Emotions churned inside me.
I loved you, I whispered. I still do. And Poppyshe remembers you. She said you looked like Mummy. What do I tell her?
She swallowed. Tell her the truth. That Mummy made a terrible mistake.
I shook my head. No. Come home. Tell her yourself. She needs you. And I I need you too.
That evening, I brought Eleanor home.
When Poppy saw her, she gasped, then hurled herself into her mothers arms.
Mummy? she whimpered, clinging tight.
Eleanor sobbed. Yes, darling. Im here.
I watched, my heart breaking and mending all at once.
In the weeks that followed, we untangled the mess quietly. I used my connections to sort the legalitiesno headlines, no circus. Just usfamily suppers, bedtime stories, second chances.
Eleanor found her way backnot as the woman shed pretended to be, but as the woman she chose to be.
Imperfect, but real.
One night, after tucking Poppy in, I asked, Why now? Why stay this time?
She looked up, steady. Because this time, I remembered who I am.
I raised a brow.
Im not just Grace the waitress, or Mrs. Whitmore the businessmans wife. Im a mother. A woman who lost herselfand finally found the courage to come home.
I smiled, kissed her forehead, and held her hand tight.
And this time, she didnt let go.
