My name is Edward, widowed three years now. My wife Eleanor died in a horrific car crash, leaving me and our son Benjamin, who’d just turned six. Since Eleanor passed, I’ve raised Benjamin alone, juggling both parenting roles. Though life’s been relentless, Ben’s innocent smile remains my sole anchor.
As usual, I’d dropped Ben at his primary school that morning and collected him come afternoon. Riding home on my bicycle, his small arms clung desperately around my waist. Back in our terraced house, he abruptly pointed to Eleanor’s portrait above the fireplace. His voice carried a weight far beyond his years:
“Dad, I saw Mum by the school gates today. She said she won’t be coming home with you anymore.”
Ice flooded my veins.
My heart seized. I told myself grief made him imagine it—I tousled his sandy hair, forcing a frail smile:
“Mum’s in heaven now, lad. You must’ve dreamt it.”
But Benjamin’s gaze—crystalline, unwavering—
My breath hitched as Sophie, my beloved wife, stood there beside the school gates, bathed in an ethereal glow, her eyes locked with mine for one heart-stopping moment before she dissolved into the autumn mist like a whisper lost to the wind.