28September
The cab pulled up to the flat and I froze when I saw my missing wife in the window.
Enough! How many times must I be reminded of the past? I snapped, throwing a photograph onto the kitchen table, my voice shaking. Its been eighteen months, Emma. She isnt coming back.
Inspector Mary Peterson, the local constable, lifted the picture gently and slipped it back into her folder. Mr. Whitaker, were closing the case. Legally enough time has passed to declare Mrs. Ellen Whitford missing.
So youre sayingdead, I said, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.
I didnt say that, Mary replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
I took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Whitaker, Mary sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, I murmured, rubbing my eyes. Sorry. Every time you come with that file it starts all over againsleepless nights, endless thoughts, memories
I understand, she said. But if anything comes to mind that could help
Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers and stood. In my experience some people return after three, even five years.
And have you ever had a case where a wife simply walked out to another man without a word? I asked sharply.
She was silent a moment, then nodded. Yes. But they usually leave a note.
The door closed behind her. I slumped into the armchair and shut my eyes. Eighteen months had passed since Ellen stepped out and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was switched off, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had melted into the earth.
I tried everythingpolice inquiries, private detectives, newspaper ads, internet posts. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knew anything.
The first months were the worst. Interrogations (of course I was the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hope. Then came a numbness, a dull ache in my chest, and endless questions without answers.
Why? How did I miss it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she still be alive but unable to reach out? I tried not to think about it.
A ring snapped me out of the gloom. The caller ID showed the local cab firm.
Hello, Whitaker? the dispatcher, Tamara, sounded hoarse. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Parker is down with a pressure issue and were flooded with bookings.
Sure, I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. What time?
Six oclock, first run to the airport.
Got it.
Id taken the cab after Ellen disappeared, three months later. Id lost my engineering jobmy boss was sympathetic at first, but endless sick days and unpaid leave wore him down. I couldnt focus on drawings or calculations any more.
Steering a cab turned out to be just right. Its mechanical work, demanding enough to keep my mind occupied but not so much that Id have to think too hard. And theres no attachmentpassengers come and go, stories flicker in and out. Today youre driving someone, tomorrow its someone else. The only responsibility is to get them from point A to point B.
Morning began as usualup at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. I caught my reflection: a gaunt face, a touch of grey at the temples, lines that werent there eighteen months ago. Fortytwo, but I look fifty.
My first passenger was a stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He rattled off everything about his trip to Manchester, his motherinlaw who was a nightmare, his boss who thought he was a workaholic. I nodded, offered a few polite comments, but my thoughts were miles away.
The day unfolded in the usual rhythmtrain station, shopping centre, office park, back to the station. By evening fatigue settled in, yet I couldnt go home; the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Whitaker, can you do a run from River Street to Greenfield Estate? Thatll be the last one tonight, the clients waiting.
Alright, I sighed, punching the address into the satnav.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small boy, about three or four, who whined heavily about not wanting to go home.
Mike, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Dads waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shrieked. I want to Grandmas!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Now lets get home.
I waited while they settled into the back seat. The boy kept whining, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally sat down. Its been a hard day.
No problem, I replied, starting the meter. Greenfield Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled near the city centre after an accident, and we sat in a jam for nearly an hour. The boy eventually drifted off on his mothers lap. She stared out the window in silence. I turned on a lowvolume station, careful not to wake him.
When we finally cleared the jam, dusk had fallen, a light drizzle drummed on the windscreen, and puddles glistened on the road. I drove carefully, fighting a throbbing headache.
Greenfield Estate was a suburb of brick houses and highrise blocks, still unfinished in places. I rarely visited there; the impersonal concrete never appealed to me.
Turn right here, the woman instructed as we entered the estate. And please, the third building on the left.
I obeyed, stopped in front of a plain seventeenstorey block.
Here we are, I said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £5.
She handed me a £5 note. No change needed. Thank you for your patience.
Thank you, I smiled. May I help with the child?
I opened the rear door, and she handed the sleeping boy to me before she went inside. I cradled him gently while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him, she said finally.
Are you sure? I could drop him at the flat.
No, thank you. My husband will be home, hell handle it.
I handed the boy back; he shifted but didnt wake. The woman thanked me again and disappeared up the stairs. I lingered in the car, the rain still falling, and watched her struggle with the heavy door.
I turned the key, and as the engine hummed I glanced up at the thirdfloor windows. One was lit. A silhouette flickered in the yellow glow.
My heart hammered. The profile was unmistakablethe way she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. I knew that gesture from a thousand tiny memories.
Vera. My wife. The woman who vanished eighteen months ago.
I couldnt recall how I got out of the car, across the courtyard, into the block. My mind was a fog, voices muffled, a strange pressure in my chest. All that mattered was that third floor, that window.
The lift was out of order. I bolted up the stairs, breath ragged, reaching the third floor. Four doors stood before me. I counted from the left; the second matched the layout Id rehearsed in my head.
I pressed the buzzer. A long, tense pause. Then footsteps, a click, the door eased open.
A man in his forties, in jeans and a Tshirt, stared at me.
Can I help you? he asked, puzzled.
I tried to speak, but the words tangled. Im Im looking for a woman. Vera Whitford.
His eyebrows knit. Theres no Vera Whitford here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He moved to close the door, but I grabbed the handle.
Wait! I saw her in the window just now. Im not mad Im your my wife.
He hesitated, then the door swung wider. Behind him stood the woman Id just dropped off, cradling the sleeping boy. She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and concern.
Whats happening, Simon? she asked, her voice trembling.
This man says hes looking for a Vera, Simon replied. He claims shes in the flat.
She stared at me, eyes widening. Youre the taxi driver who took us here, arent you?
I saw my wife in that window, I insisted, voice shaking. Vera Whitford, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above the right eyebrow.
Simons face shifted from irritation to wary curiosity.
Theres no Vera Whitford, he said. We only have me, my wife Lena, and our son.
Lena, the woman, placed a hand on Simons shoulder. Hes mistaken, she said gently. Hes been looking for his wife for a year and a half.
My wifes name is Vera Whitford, I said, desperation creeping in. Shes thin, she has a scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall, she hates chrysanthemums, loves strawberry icecream.
Lenas eyes flicked to her mother, who sat quietly in a corner. The older woman, once called Margaret, now looked up at me.
Is this you? she asked, voice frail.
My mother, I whispered, I?
Simon shook his head. We found a woman on the outskirts of the North Bridge a few months ago, halfconscious, no ID. She woke up with no memory. We took her in. My mother, Margaret, had just passed away, so we offered her a place.
An amnesiac, Lena said. The doctors said she might never remember.
Yes, Simon added. We never reported her missing because we thought she was just another lost soul. We gave her a home, a name, a family.
My Vera is missing, I snarled. Youve given her another life!
We gave her shelter, Simon said. When no one else would help.
Ive been looking for her every day I broke down, the hurt raw. Eighteen months. Every minute.
Margarets gaze softened, and she whispered, The bridge was covered in snow I remember the cold.
Lena leaned in, Do you recall anything else, mum?
The car a white car a man, rough, scary, Margaret murmured, clutching her head.
I leaned forward. She was on a bus, as usual. What happened then?
She stared through me, eyes distant. He grabbed me. He pulled me into a car. I screamed, but nobody nobody helped.
Who? I asked, heart clenched.
She shook her head, tears spilling. I dont know. I dont want to think about it.
Lena hugged her, Its alright, you dont have to remember.
I need to know, Verano, Margaretsaid, looking at me. Are you really my husband?
Yes, I whispered, Vera, weve been married eight years, we live on Garden Street, I work as a civil engineer, we wanted children.
A flicker of recognition sparked in her eyes, then faded. She touched my cheek lightly. I dont remember you, but something feels familiar.
I placed my hand over hers. Youll remember. In time. Ill help you.
I turned to Simon and Lena. Thank you for caring for her. But shes my wife. I want her back.
Lenas shoulders trembled. We love her. Shes become part of our family. Mick thinks shes his grandma.
I understand, I said. I wont stop you seeing her, but her place is with me.
Simon placed a hand on my arm. She should decide herself. If she wants to stay with you, we wont stand in the way.
All eyes were on Margaret. She was bewildered, scared, clutching at the fragments of a life she didnt recognise.
I dont know, she whispered. I dont remember you. I also dont recall my life here before before the accident. They told me Im Lenas mother, and I believed it. Now you say Im your wife.
Perhaps she needs time, Simon suggested. To get to know you again, to be sure of who she truly is.
I wanted to arguehow much time could she need when I finally found her? Yet looking at her frightened face, I realised Simon was right. She was disoriented, terrified. She needed space to process this impossible reality.
Alright, I said finally. Ill give her time. Well meet, well talk, and if she chooses to come home, Ill be waiting.
Simon asked, You wont go to the police? Demand immediate handover?
No, I promised. If you dont block our meetings, I wont press further.
Margaret gave a faint smile. I think Id like to get to know you again.
That smile, familiar and warm, cut through the gloom like a sunrise after a storm. My throat tightened with fresh tears.
Ill wait, I said. For as long as it takes.
As I left the block, I looked back at the thirdfloor window. The light was still on, and a silhouette stared down at me. I raised my hand in farewell, and I think she waved back.
Tomorrow will be another day. A new life. A fresh start with a love that has been rediscovered.
For now, Ill go home, call Inspector Mary, and tell her the case isnt ready to be closed. Sometimes whats lost reappears, even after a year and a half. Hope may flicker, but it never truly dies. The lesson I take with me is that patience and compassion can turn the impossible into a second chance.
