I came home from the hospital with my newborn in my arms—alone. My husband wasn’t there to pick us up, wasn’t waiting at the door. My heart ached, but I pushed it aside. I just wanted to bring my son home. But the moment I opened the door, my blood turned to ice. A woman stood there. She was wearing my pink silk robe, smiling like she belonged in my house, like she had every right to be there. And the reason she was in my home made my stomach

“Breathe, Thomas… breathe,” Thomas whispered gently, gripping his sister’s hand as she was wheeled down the hospital hallway. Leah’s face was pale, beads of sweat shining on her forehead, and her shallow breaths were frantic. “You’re… you’re the best older brother I could ever ask God for, Thomas,” she murmured as they entered the operating room. Her voice was barely audible, but Thomas caught every word. Leah had gone into labor at only thirty-six weeks, and the doctors had insisted on a C-section. But as the first baby was delivered,

Five years after losing my wife, I thought nothing in life could shock me anymore. I was wrong. That day, my little girl and I went to my best friend’s wedding. Everything felt normal—until the moment the groom lifted the bride’s veil. My heart stopped. My hands went cold. My daughter tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Daddy, why are you crying?” And then the bride—my dead wife—looked straight at me. In that instant, the world I had rebuilt over five long years crumbled to dust. I hadn’t even planned to