My daughter Lily, seven, had her mother’s bright grey-blue eyes and the same curious tilt of her head. One morning she held a wedding invitation and asked, “Are we really going to Uncle Ben’s wedding?”
Ben had been my best friend — a support when my wife died — so I agreed. At the vineyard ceremony, Lily wondered if the bride would wear a veil like Mommy did. When the veil lifted, I froze: the woman at the altar looked exactly like my late wife.
Afterward, Ben pulled me aside. He confessed the bride was my wife’s identical twin — adopted long ago. I felt betrayed and stunned.
Later, the twin — Julia — visited us. She was kind and gentle with Lily, carrying traits like her sister: a shared laugh, a familiar light in her eyes. Over time, my grief softened. Julia didn’t replace my wife — but in her quiet presence I found a strange, gentle echo of what was lost. And Lily, gazing at the stars, still believed Mommy was watching. Maybe she was right.