Fifteen years ago, my life split in two. My wife, Jane, kissed our newborn son on the forehead, told me she was running out to buy diapers, and vanished. That Sunday afternoon, she promised to be back in less than an hour. She never returned.
For years, I lived in the shadow of her absence, raising our son, Caleb, alone. The police investigated. Friends whispered. Family looked at me with suspicion. Jane’s car was found abandoned miles away, but there were no clues—just silence.
I threw myself into fatherhood, determined to give Caleb a stable life, even as questions haunted both of us. “Did Mom love me?” he’d ask. I told him the truth I believed: “She loved you, but I don’t know why she left.”
Then, last week, everything changed. I was in a supermarket, picking up groceries, when I felt it—a prickling at the back of my neck. I turned, and there she was. Jane. Alive. Standing in the aisle, older but unmistakable. Our eyes met, and her words hit me like a thunderbolt:
“You have to forgive me.”
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