The moment the impossible happened
I followed his finger.
A woman stood near the shoreline, back to us.
Same height as Stacey.
Same chestnut hair.
My heart started pounding so hard it felt like it was punching its way out.
“Luke,” I said quickly, voice tight. “Buddy, that’s not—”
The woman turned.
And my stomach dropped the moment our eyes met.
It was Stacey.
Not someone who looked like her.
Her.
Luke tugged my hand, confused. “Daddy, why does Mommy look different?”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
Stacey’s eyes went wide — not with love.
With panic.
She grabbed the arm of a man standing next to her and they moved fast, disappearing into the crowd like they’d rehearsed it.
“Mommy!” Luke screamed, starting forward.
I scooped him up so fast my arms shook.
“We need to go,” I said, forcing calm I didn’t feel.
He thrashed lightly, crying. “But Dad, it’s Mom! Didn’t you see her? Why didn’t she come say hi?”
I carried him back to our room like the beach sand had turned into broken glass.
That night, after Luke fell asleep, I paced the balcony until my legs ached.
I called Stacey’s mother.
She answered with a tired sigh, like I was an inconvenience.
“Hello?”
“I need you to tell me exactly what happened to Stacey,” I said, voice flat.
Silence.
Then: “We’ve been through this, Abraham.”
“No,” I said. “Tell me again.”
She repeated the story — accident, hospital, too late.
“And the body?” I pressed. “Why couldn’t I see her?”
“It was too damaged,” she said quickly. “We thought it best—”
“You thought wrong,” I snapped, and hung up.
I stood there staring at the black ocean.
Something wasn’t right.
And I wasn’t going to let it go.
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