The morning my husband Jack decided to stay home sick—a rare thing for him—I sensed something was off. Jack never missed work. Not for a cold, not for a stomach bug, not even during the hardest moments in life. So when he sat at the kitchen table, looking pale and worn out, I assumed he was finally taking care of himself.
I didn’t press him. Mornings were always a whirlwind—packing lunches, chasing down missing shoes, making sure our daughter Emma was dressed and ready. Jack looked distant, but I chalked it up to exhaustion. I kissed him goodbye and asked him to call the doctor.
Then I opened the front door—and everything changed.
There, standing on our porch in the early light, was a sculpture. Life-sized. Detailed. It looked exactly like Jack—down to the subtle bend in his nose and the familiar scar on his chin. My younger daughter, Ellie, gasped. “Is that Dad?”
I couldn’t answer. My heart raced. I called for Jack. He came to the door, turned pale, and rushed to pull the statue inside without explanation.
“What is this? Who made it?” I asked.
He avoided my eyes. “Please just take the kids to school. I’ll explain later.”
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