Im Edward, sixty-one this year. My wife passed away eight years ago, and since then, my days had stretched out like an empty road. My children visited occasionally, kind but busy, their lives moving too quickly for me to follow. They brought bundles of cash, left bottles of pills, and hurried off again.
Id accepted the quietuntil one evening, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a name I never thought Id see again: Margaret Hastings.
Margaretmy first love. The girl Id sworn Id marry one day. She had hair like golden wheat and a laugh that lingered in my memory even after forty years. But life pulled us apart. Her family moved without warning, and she was wed before I could so much as say farewell.
When her face appeared againstreaks of silver in her hair but the same warm smiletime seemed to unravel. We talked, sharing old stories, then long phone calls, then tea in a cosy café. The connection was effortless, as though the years between us had melted away.
And so, at sixty-one, I married my first love.
Our wedding was modest. I wore a dark suit; she wore cream lace. Friends teased that we looked like young sweethearts. For the first time in years, my heart felt light.
That night, after the guests had gone, I poured two glasses of sherry and led her to the bedroom. Our wedding nighta joy I thought time had stolen.
But when I helped her out of her dress, I noticed something odd: a scar near her shoulder, another on her wrist. I frownednot at the marks themselves, but at how she stiffened when I touched them.
Margaret, I said gently, did he hurt you?
She went still. Her eyes flickeredfear, guilt, hesitationbefore she spoke words that turned my blood to ice.
Edward my name isnt Margaret.
The room fell silent. My pulse thundered in my ears.
What do you mean?
She looked down, trembling.
Margaret was my sister.
I stumbled back, my mind reeling. The girl I rememberedthe one whose smile Id carried for decadesgone?
She died, the woman whispered, tears spilling. She died young. Our parents buried her quietly. But everyone always said I resembled her sounded like her I was her shadow. When you found me online, I I couldnt resist. You thought I was her. And for once, someone looked at me the way theyd looked at Margaret. I didnt want to lose that.
The ground seemed to shift beneath me. My first love was gone. The woman before me wasnt herjust an echo, a stranger wrapped in Margarets memory.
I wanted to shout, to demand answers, to rage at the lie. But as I studied hershaking, fragile, drowning in shameI saw not a deceiver, but a woman whod spent her life unseen, forever in anothers shadow.
Tears stung my eyes. My chest achedfor Margaret, for the years lost, for the cruelty of fate.
I whispered roughly, Who are you, then?
She lifted her face, shattered.
My name is Beatrice. And all I ever wanted was to know what it felt like to be loved. Just once.
That night, I lay awake beside her, unable to sleep. My heart was splitbetween the ghost of the girl Id adored and the lonely woman whod borrowed her face.
And I understood then: love in later years isnt always a blessing.
Sometimes, its a trialone sharp enough to prove that even an old heart can still shatter.
