I planned a usual Saturday lunch with my five-year-old daughter Naomi at our favorite café near the university where I teach literature.
Since my husband Andre died two years ago, I’ve tried to maintain Naomi’s schedule.

These meals became a peaceful routine, a reassuring image of regular life when everything fell apart.

She drew stars on a napkin in her beloved pink sweater. She froze mid-stroke.

Her hand floated, gaze fixed on something behind me. “Mom,” she said, “that waiter looks like Daddy.”

Catching my breath. I turned slowly.

Tall, slim, rich dark complexion, powerful jawline—there he stood. He smiled sweetly as he served a table near the window with a black apron and tray.

He turned slightly, and I spotted a small scar beneath his left ear. Andre’s scar.

One from a terrible football tackle in college. Chest constricted.

D3ad Andre.
Nevada highways suffered automobile explosions.

Nothing except debris, a wedding ring, and scattered things. The dental records matched.

Buried an urn. I lamented. I broke. I rebuilt. Here he was.

I regarded Naomi. Are you sure? She nods. It’s him.”

I got up and urged her to wait. I pretended to search for the restroom in the rear.

My pulse raced as I approached. He said, “Would you like water with lemon?”

Clearly his, but softer. I joined him. “Excuse me,” I said.

He turned. Met eyes. Familiar. Unchanged.

“Yes, ma’am?” He smiled politely.

I watched. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. One of those faces.”

I pointed to your scar.

His hand touched it. “High school accident.”

It was false. It was college for Andre. Loved recounting the tale. Feeling dizzy. “You’re lying,” I muttered.

He seemed bewildered. Is everything okay?
Stepped back. “Yeah. Sorry. Thought you were someone else.” After getting Naomi’s stuff, I exited the café without looking back.

My hands trembled in the vehicle. Could he have lied about dying?

That night, I looked for Hollow Pine Bistro personnel images but found nothing. No names. Simple contact email.

I wrote: “Visited today. Tall, African American, scar beneath left ear—I think I recognized someone on your crew. Possibly Andre. Can you confirm?”

Instant auto-reply: “Thank you for contacting Hollow Pine Bistro. We’ll reply in 48 hours.”

I hardly slept. Naomi shifted and questioned, “Was it really him?” Not knowing how to respond.

The following morning, I returned alone. He was absent. Asking the hostess. Does anybody resemble this? I showed her Andre’s picture.

Shaking her head. “No one by that name here. Sorry.”

That night, my email was answered. “We examined your visit’s shift logs and footage. No one matches your description in our system.”

I dropped the phone. Naomi and I spotted him. No evidence existed now.
The next day, I took a “Vegas Trip” box from the attic. Inside were sympathy cards, death certificates, and insurance documents.

A one-way Las Vegas-Salt Lake City automobile rental ticket was at the bottom. Dated two days post-accident.

My stomach sank. I phoned the rental agency.

After numerous transfers, someone confirmed: “Yes, that vehicle was returned. Andre Cole signed.”

I hired Mara Donovan, a private eye, that night. She remained calm. “You’re not crazy,” she said. “Let me find him.”

Three days later, she phoned. “He lives in Ogden. Living as Julian Marsh.

Fake ID. Off-book work. No phone. Calm life. Stays alone. However, he wears a wedding ring.”

Chest constricted. “He still claims marriage?”

“Looks that way,” she answered, sending the address.

After dropping Naomi off with my sister, I traveled six hours to Utah with her overnight luggage.
The area was quiet. His white-trimmed dwelling was tiny. One automobile in the drive. No doorbell. Knocking came after a lengthy wait.

The door opened, stopping my breathing. It was him. Andre. Live.

His eyes grew. “Carla,” he said.

Slapped him. In the silence, sound cracked. I snarled, “You’re alive. You allowed our grief. You let your kid scream herself to sleep for two years.”

He froze. I entered the house past him. Give me the truth. Every bit.”

He sat heavily. Not intended to be like this. Vegas was more than labor.

Friends owed dangerous individuals money. I participated. They targeted me. Drove me off. Before the fire, I fled. Everyone believed I lied.”

“You allowed it.”

“I thought disappearing would protect you and Naomi.”

“You let us suffer,” I complained. “You let me bury nothing.”

He hid his face in his hands. “I watched from afar. I always loved you both.”

“But you stopped being our family,” I remarked.

He raised eyes. “Does Naomi know?”
“She saw you first. “That’s Daddy,” she said.

His eyes welled. “Can I see her?”

“No,” I answered. No until you show you deserve it.

He nodded. Then I’ll try.”

I left.

At home, Naomi glanced up. Was it Daddy?

“Yes,” I answered. “But he made a huge mistake.”

“Will he return?”

“Maybe. If he merits.”

Sadly, she smiled. I hope he does. I miss his giraffe jokes.”

“Me too,” I muttered, hugging her.

A letter came three weeks later. Simply no excuses. Just promise:

I’ll spend every day fixing my mistakes. I’ll wait for Naomi’s visit.”

I folded and stored it for her. Because it was never simply about a missing guy. A small girl kept seeing her favorite face.