«Daddy that waitress looks like Mummy.»
Rain trickled down the windows that Saturday morning as Edward Cunninghama wealthy tech entrepreneur and weary single fatherstepped into a cosy corner café in London. Beside him, four-year-old Emily clutched his hand, her tiny fingers warm against his.
Edward hadnt smiled much lately. Not since Charlottehis wife, his anchorhad disappeared two years ago in a motorway accident. Without her laughter, the world had faded to grey. Only Emily kept a flicker of light alive in the darkness.
They settled into a booth by the window. Edward scanned the menu through bleary eyes while Emily fidgeted with the hem of her floral dress, making it sway.
Then her voice piped up, quiet but sure.
«Daddy that waitress looks like Mummy.»
The words floated past himuntil they struck like lightning.
«What did you say, love?»
Emily pointed. «There.»
Edward followed her gaze and froze.
A few steps away, a woman was chatting with a customer, and for a moment, the past came rushing back. The warm hazel eyes. The easy, unhurried walk. The dimples that only appeared with a genuine smile.
It couldnt be. He had seen Charlottes body. He had stood by her grave. He had signed the death certificate.
Yet as the woman moved, Charlottes face moved with her.
He stared too long. The woman glanced over, and her smile faltered. Something flickered in her expressionrecognition, uneasebefore she slipped through the kitchen door.
Edwards pulse quickened.
Could it be her?
A cruel coincidence? A trick of fate? Or something darker?
«Stay right here, Em,» he whispered.
He stood. A staff member blocked his path. «Sir, you cant»
«I just need to speak to the waitress,» Edward said. «Dark hair. Beige blouse.»
The employee hesitated, then nodded and vanished.
Minutes dragged.
The door swung open. Up close, the resemblance stole his breath again.
«Can I help you?» she asked cautiously.
Her voice was deeper than Charlottesbut her eyes were identical.
«You look exactly like someone I once knew,» he said.
She gave a polite, practised smile. «Happens.»
«Do you know the name Charlotte Cunningham?»
For a heartbeat, her gaze wavered. «No. Sorry.»
He pulled out a business card. «If you remember anything, call me.»
She didnt take it. «Have a nice day, sir.» Then she walked away.
But not before he noticed the tremor in her hand. The quick nip of her lower lipCharlottes old tell.
That night, sleep eluded him. Edward sat by Emilys bed, listening to her soft breaths, replaying every moment in the café.
Was it Charlotte? If not, why had the woman seemed so shaken?
He searched online but found almost nothing. No photos. No staff listings. One clue surfaced from a passing remark hed overheard: Alice.
Alice. The name burrowed under his skin.
He called a private investigator. «A woman named Alice, working on Baker Street. No surname. She looks like my wifewhos supposed to be dead.»
Three days later, the phone rang.
«Edward,» the investigator said, «I dont think your wife died in that crash.»
Ice flooded his veins. «Explain.»
«Traffic cameras show someone else driving. Your wife was in the passenger seat, but the remains were never confirmed. The ID matched, the clothes fit, but dental records didnt. And your waitress? Alices real name is Charlotte Harris. She changed it six months after the accident.»
The room spun. Charlotte. Alive. Hiding.
Breathing.
Why?
The next morning, Edward returned to the café alone. When she saw him, her eyes widened, but she didnt flee. She spoke to a colleague, untied her apron, and gestured toward the back door.
Behind the café, beneath a gnarled oak, they sat on a low brick step.
«I wondered when youd find me,» she murmured.
«Why?» Edward asked. «Why vanish?»
«I didnt mean to,» she said, staring at her hands. «I was meant to be in that car. Emily had a fever, so I swapped shifts and left early. Hours later, the crash happened. My ID, my coateverything pointed to me being in that seat.»
«So the world thought you were gone.»
«I thought so too,» she admitted. «When I saw the news, I froze. I felt relief. Then guilt for feeling it. The galas, the press, the endless smilingit suffocated me. I lost myself in that life. I didnt know who I was beyond your wife.»
Edward said nothing. The breeze carried the scent of coffee and rain.
«I watched your funeral,» she whispered. «I watched you cry. I wanted to run to you, to Emily. But every hour made the truth harder to confess. I told myself you were better off without someone who could leave like that.»
«I loved you,» he said. «I still do. Emily remembers you. She saw you and said you looked like Mummy. What do I tell her?»
«Tell her the truth,» Charlotte said, tears spilling freely. «Tell her Mummy made a terrible mistake.»
«Come tell her yourself,» Edward said. «Come home.»
That evening, he brought her back to the house. Emily looked up from her colouring book, gasped, then sprinted into Charlottes arms.
«Mummy?» she whispered.
«Yes, darling,» Charlotte sobbed into Emilys hair. «Im here.»
Edward stood in the doorway, feeling something shatter and mend all at once.
In the weeks that followed, the truth unfolded quietly. Edward used discreet contacts to untangle the legal mess around Charlottes identity. No press releases. No headlines. Just fish and chips, bedtime stories, and sticky fingers from too many sweets. Second chances, simple and real.
Charlotte began to returnnot as the polished society wife, nor the ghost serving tea under a false name, but as the woman she chose to be.
One night, after Emily finally dozed off, Edward asked, «Why now? Why stay?»
Charlotte met his gaze, steady. «Because I remember who I am.»
He raised an eyebrow.
«Im not just Alice the waitress,» she said, «or the millionaires wife. Im Emilys mother. Im a woman who lost her wayand finally found the courage to come home.»
Edward smiled, pressed his lips to her forehead, and entwined his fingers with hers.
This time, she held on.
