Five years after losing my wife, I took my daughter Emma to my best friend’s wedding. I didn’t expect anything but a quiet day—until the bride walked down the aisle. When her veil lifted, I saw the impossible: Natalie, my wife. The woman I thought had died in a car accident.

She ran. I followed, heart pounding. Behind the venue, she confessed: she left us, faked her death, convinced it was for the best. I told her how Emma cried for a year, how I lied so she wouldn’t feel abandoned.

Stefan, the groom, overheard. His wedding ended before it began. Natalie’s family swept her away, silent and ashamed.

Weeks later, Stefan and I shared drinks. I wasn’t angry anymore. The pain had passed. Emma and I had survived—stronger, whole.

Natalie’s return didn’t ruin me. It freed me. I had loved a ghost, but now, finally, I could let her go.