Four years after losing my wife, I stood at the altar again—ready to say “I do” to Carolyn, the woman who had brought light back into my life. The chapel was softly lit with candles and flowers, and my 13-year-old son, Tim, sat quietly in the front pew. It was a moment that felt hopeful, like a fresh beginning.
Then, just as I lifted Carolyn’s veil, Tim’s voice rang out across the room.
“Dad, wait… look at her shoulder.”
The chapel fell into stunned silence. All eyes shifted to Tim, then to Carolyn. I followed Tim’s gaze and noticed a birthmark on Carolyn’s shoulder—light tan, shaped like a butterfly. I’d seen it before, but Tim saw something more. “There’s a girl in my class, Emma,” he said, visibly shaken. “She has the exact same birthmark. Same place. I read that birthmarks like that can run in families.”
I turned to Carolyn, confused. Her posture stiffened, her face turned pale. “I have to tell you something,” she said quietly. The minister offered to pause the ceremony, but Carolyn shook her head.
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