She had asked if I could watch Willa a little longer that weekend. Nora had said she needed time to clear her head. I agreed.
That was the last time I heard her voice.
I agreed.
Since then, Willa has lived with me full-time.
Our days became quiet routines — school morning drop-offs, picture books, hot cocoa before bed. I made my share of parenting mistakes, but I tried my best. Some nights, Willa would ask, “Is Mommy still in heaven?”
And on other nights, she’d just press her face into my chest and fall asleep without a word.
“Is Mommy still in heaven?”
This Christmas, I wanted things to be simple.
Just Willa and me.
We pulled the old box of ornaments from the attic on Christmas Eve. Most were decades old. Willa was careful with each one, as if they were made of magic. She was humming along to the carols playing on the radio when she pulled out the paper angel she had made in art class.
She stared at it for a long moment, then tiptoed over to the tree and nestled it near the top.
“Looks perfect,” I said from the couch.
Just Willa and me.
She turned to smile at me — then stopped, frozen.
She didn’t say a word. Just walked to the front window and pressed her hands and nose against the cold glass.
“Grandpa,” she whispered, “look! Mommy’s back!”
I didn’t react right away. Children say all kinds of things, especially when they miss someone.
I laughed softly, not turning around. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
She didn’t take her eyes off the window and kept pointing toward the street.
“My mom,” she said, more insistently now. “She’s standing by the mailbox. Just like before.”
She didn’t say a word.
My chest tightened.
“There’s no one there,” I said gently, finally stepping closer.
I expected to see a squirrel or maybe a neighbor in a scarf that looked vaguely familiar. But when I looked out, my breath caught!
A woman stood under the streetlight as the snow fell.
Her coat was too thin for the weather. Her posture was familiar — too familiar. She stood the same way Nora used to, one foot turned in slightly. Her hands gripped the lapels of her coat, pulling it tighter against the cold.
She even had the same habit of tilting her head just so, like she was listening for something.
My chest tightened.
And then, as if she could hear me think, she looked up at our house.
Her eyes locked with mine. They were not just similar to Nora’s — they were the same. My knees went weak!
The ornament I was holding slipped from my hand and shattered on the hardwood.
I turned to Willa.
“Stay here. Don’t move, you understand me?”
She nodded slowly.
I grabbed the handle and rushed out the door without thinking — no coat, no gloves, just a burst of adrenaline and disbelief pushing me into the cold.
I turned to Willa.
“Nora!” I yelled, louder than I meant to. “Nora, is that you?!”
She flinched at the sound, stepped back once, then ran!
Her boots skidded on the icy sidewalk, but she kept going. I followed, my heart pounding like a war drum, lungs burning with every step. She was quick, but not quick enough. She stumbled near the Jeffersons’ yard, and I caught her by the arm before she hit the ground.
“Nora, is that you?!”
She turned, breathless, tears already running down her cheeks.
“Dad,” she said. It was not a question, but confirmation.
It was her. It was Nora!
I couldn’t speak. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I was staring at my daughter — the daughter I buried two years ago!
“How?” I finally asked, though my voice came out like a broken whisper. “How is this possible? We buried you. I saw your name etched in stone.”
She gripped my sleeve as if she thought I might vanish.
It was her.
“I know,” she said. “I know what they told you. But it was all a lie.”
I blinked, trying to grasp the meaning behind her words.
“What do you mean, ‘a lie’?” I asked louder this time. “You were in a crash. They showed me the reports. The casket—”
“I wasn’t in that crash,” she said, cutting me off gently. “I wasn’t even in the car.”
“You were in a crash.”
“I met this wealthy man a few months before I left,” she said. “I didn’t plan it. He showed up at the café where I worked and kept coming back. He was charming at first and generous. Said he had connections and could give me a better life.”
She paused.
“I didn’t believe him, not at first. But he wouldn’t go away. He wore me down. And when I told him I had a daughter, that I lived with you, he told me I didn’t have to live like that anymore. That I could be free.”
She paused.
My stomach twisted.
“Nora,” I said slowly, “what are you telling me?”
She lowered her eyes.
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