My daughter Lily is seven, with her mother’s bright gray-blue eyes and curious tilt of her head. Sometimes her laughter surprises me, a sharp reminder of how grief can strike in joy.
That morning she sat on my bed with an old wedding invitation.
“Daddy,” she asked, “are we really going to Uncle Ben’s wedding?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” I said.
Ben had been my best friend and supported us after Sarah died. When he got engaged, I was happy for him—though the invitation made me uneasy.
At the vineyard ceremony, Lily asked if the bride would wear a long veil like Mommy did. I smiled, unsure.
When the bride walked down the aisle, something about her felt familiar. And when Ben lifted her veil, my world stopped.
She looked exactly like Sarah.
Lily asked why I was crying. I didn’t know. The bride froze, and Ben pulled me aside. He told me the bride, Julia, was Sarah’s identical twin—separated after birth and only discovered years later. He’d fallen in love with her.
I was stunned. Sarah had never mentioned a sister.
I left the wedding early and struggled to sleep, haunted by how seeing Julia shook me.
The next day, Julia came to our door. She gently explained she never meant to hurt me, that she’d wanted to meet Lily and learn about Sarah. Her resemblance was uncanny—same eyes, same quiet strength—but she was her own person.
Over time, our pain eased into something gentler. Julia didn’t replace Sarah, but pieces of her reminded us of what we loved. Lily warmed to her, and Ben and I rebuilt our friendship—different now, but real.
Grief didn’t disappear. It changed shape, finding new forms and meanings. And when Lily looks at the stars and says, “Mommy’s watching us,” I don’t correct her.
Maybe she’s right.