It was supposed to be a quiet Saturday lunch—just me and my five-year-old daughter, Naomi—at a small cafe near the university where I teach literature. Since losing my husband, Andre, two years ago, I’ve tried to keep life as normal as possible for Naomi. She was only three when it happened, and she’s always been sharp-eyed, observant, and far too perceptive for her age. Our Saturday lunches became a ritual, a way to pretend that everything hadn’t shattered.
That day, Naomi wore her favorite pink hoodie and was drawing stars on a napkin when she stopped mid-stroke. Her hand hovered in the air, eyes wide and fixed on something behind me. “Mom,” she whispered, “that waiter looks just like Daddy.”
My heart stopped. I turned slowly, afraid and yet—impossibly—hopeful. There he was: tall, strong build, deep brown skin, sharp jawline. He wore a black apron, carried a tray, and smiled politely at a table by the window. When he turned slightly, I saw it—a scar just below his left ear. The same scar Andre got in college after a football injury. My chest tightened and my vision blurred. Andre was dead. The car had exploded on a Nevada highway, the body never found, just burned wreckage and a few belongings. Dental records confirmed it. We had a funeral. I had cried until my bones ached.
I looked at Naomi. “Are you sure?” She nodded, eyes wide. “It’s him.”
I stood up, telling Naomi to stay put, and walked toward the back, pretending to look for the restroom but angling closer to the waiter. His voice was gentle—“Would you like water with lemon?” It was Andre’s voice, softer, quieter, but unmistakable. I approached, heart pounding. “Excuse me,” I said. He turned, his eyes meeting mine—familiar, unchanged. “Yes, ma’am?” he replied.
I stared. “Do I know you?” He smiled politely. “I don’t think so. Must be one of those faces.” He shrugged. My heart screamed. “You have a scar right there,” I pointed. He touched it. “High school accident.” That wasn’t true. Andre’s scar came from a tackle gone wrong, a story he loved to tell.
“You’re lying,” I whispered. He frowned, unsure if I was a customer or a threat. “Is everything all right?” I stepped back, shaken. “Yeah. Sorry.” I returned to Naomi, gathered our things, and left the cafe.