I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Not really.
But that changed on a bitterly cold morning in January, when I saw my husband’s face in the grocery store.
My name is Dorothy. I am 78 years old, and I have been widowed for three years now. My husband, Edward, died suddenly. The doctor said it was his heart. He said it was quick. He said it was painless.
As if that made it easier.
Edward and I had been married for fifty-five years. Fifty-five years of shared mornings, shared meals, shared arguments over things that didn’t matter, and long silences over things that did. He snored loudly. He left his socks on the bathroom floor. He could drive me crazy in a hundred small ways.
And yet, I loved him fiercely.
He was mine. And I was his.
That’s what I told myself every morning when I woke up alone, when the silence in the house felt so heavy it pressed against my chest like water, making it hard to breathe.
Time doesn’t move the same way when you’re alone. Some days stretch endlessly, while others vanish before you realize they’ve begun. I stood in front of my refrigerator that morning, staring at nearly empty shelves, trying to remember the last time I’d gone shopping.
Thursday? Last week? Maybe longer.
I sighed, grabbed my coat, and drove to the store.
The cold bit at my face as I walked inside and grabbed a cart. I pushed it slowly down the produce aisle, not really thinking about what I needed, just moving because standing still felt worse.
That’s when I heard it.
A man’s voice. Soft. Tired. Strained.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” he said quietly. “Daddy promises I’ll get you chocolates next time.”
I stopped walking. My hands froze on the cart handle.
“No, Daddy!” a small voice cried, high and breaking with tears. “You said Mommy would come back! How long is she with the angel?”
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
I should have minded my own business. Any sensible person would have turned away. But instead, I edged around the corner of the aisle, my cart wheels squeaking loudly against the floor.
A man was kneeling on the linoleum in front of three children. Two boys and a girl, maybe between four and eight years old. The youngest boy’s face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.
The man pulled him close, one hand resting gently on the back of his head.
“I know, buddy,” he whispered. “I know it’s hard.”
And that’s when it hit me.
The way he held that child. The way his jaw tightened, the shape of his eyes, the way he listened as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Edward.
He looked like Edward.
The resemblance was so strong it stole the air from my lungs. He stood up slowly, shifting the youngest child onto his hip. The older boy wiped his eyes with his sleeve. The little girl clutched her father’s jacket with both fists.
“Come on,” the man said softly. “Let’s finish up so we can go home.”
I should have gone back to my shopping. Back to my empty house. Back to my quiet, predictable life.
Instead, I followed them.
I didn’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to watch someone else’s family for a moment. Maybe I wanted to pretend I wasn’t alone.
I trailed behind them through the aisles, pretending to shop, grabbing random items I didn’t really need. I watched how he spoke to the children, how patient he was, how he bent down to their level.
They headed to the checkout, and I joined the line right behind them.
The cashier scanned their items. Milk. Pasta. Store-brand cereal. Nothing extra. Nothing fancy.
The man pulled out his wallet and counted his bills. His face fell.
“I’m short five dollars,” he said quietly.
The cashier paused. The children shifted nervously.
“I’m sorry,” he added, his ears turning red. “Can you take off the milk?”
“It’s fine,” I said suddenly. “Let me cover it.”
Before he could argue, I stepped forward and slid my card across the scanner.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, startled.
I opened my mouth to explain, to say it was nothing, that I just wanted to help. But the words died when he turned fully toward me.
There it was.
The birthmark above his lip.
Exactly like Edward’s.
The sounds of the store faded away. All I could see was that mark. That face. Those eyes.
“Thank you,” the man said. “My name’s Charles. I really appreciate this. I—”
“Are you all right?” he asked suddenly. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just fine.”
He studied me for a moment, concern lining his face, then gathered the bags and turned to the children.
“We should go,” he said. “Come on.”
I watched them walk out into the parking lot and disappear.
Could Edward have had a son I never knew about?
The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.
And yet.
I stood there shaking while the cashier asked if I was ready.
At home, I paced the living room. I pulled out old photo albums I hadn’t touched since the funeral. There was Edward at thirty. At forty. At fifty-five, the year we renewed our vows.
I traced the birthmark on his face with my finger.
What if?
No. It couldn’t be.
But what if?
I didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, I went back to the store. I didn’t expect to find him there, but it was somewhere to start. He’d left on foot the day before, which meant he lived nearby.
I drove through the neighborhood, scanning sidewalks and bus stops.
An hour passed. Then two.
I should have gone home.
Then I saw him.
He was stepping off a bus three streets over, the children trailing behind him like ducklings. I followed at a distance as they walked six blocks to a small house with peeling paint and a chain-link fence.
He unlocked the door and ushered the children inside.
I parked across the street and sat there, heart pounding.
What was I doing? Stalking a stranger because he looked like my dead husband?
But I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew.
Finally, I got out of the car and walked up to the door. I knocked.
Charles opened it, surprise flickering across his face.
“You’re the woman from the store,” he said cautiously. “Why are you here?”
“You look exactly like my husband,” I blurted out, holding up a photo of Edward at thirty-five.
Charles went pale.
He took the picture with trembling hands. “I think you should come inside.”
The house was small but clean. Toys lined the hallway. Crayon drawings covered the fridge. The children peeked around the corner, eyes wide.
“Go play,” Charles told them gently. “I need to talk to this lady.”
He stared at the photo for a long moment.
“This man ruined my mother’s life,” he said quietly.
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Her name was Lillian,” he continued. “They fell in love. He never told her he was married. When she got pregnant, she thought he’d leave you. He didn’t.”
The room seemed to close in on me.
“He paid her sometimes,” Charles said. “They argued a lot. He talked to me occasionally. When I was sixteen, she told me he was my father. She said you wouldn’t let him leave.”
“I never knew,” I whispered. “If I had…”
Silence filled the room.
Finally, I asked, “Where does this leave us?”
“You go back to your life,” he said slowly. “And I go back to mine.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I don’t want to pretend you don’t exist.”
He stared at me.
“I still cook a big dinner every Sunday,” I added. “There’s always too much food. Maybe you and the kids could help me with that.”
The following Sunday, they came.
We ate together. We talked. The silence didn’t feel so loud anymore.
“Next Sunday?” I asked as they left.
“Next Sunday,” Charles said, smiling.
Edward was gone. His mistakes were his own.
But I was still here.
And maybe, finally, I wasn’t alone.