Three Years After His 'Death,' My Husband Moved In Next Door

My name is Phoebe. At eight months pregnant, I learned that my husband Peter had died in a tragic accident. He lost control of his car, crashed into a ditch, and I lost our baby. They buried Peter in a closed casket beside our unborn child. For three years, I built a new life in another city. I found a job and focused on my future. I tried not to think about the past. Last Sunday, loud banging woke me. A family moved into the flat next door. A man, a woman and their little girl caught my eye. The man had Peter’s haircut and eyes. My heart raced as they came up the stairs. I asked his name, and he called the child Phoebe. Then I saw two missing fingers—the same childhood injury Peter had. I couldn’t believe it. “Peter… is that really you?” I whispered through tears. His next words nearly made me faint.

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