Daddy, that waitress looks just like Mommy. James Sullivan froze mid-bite, his fork suspended between his plate and mouth. The Sunday afternoon light streamed through the windows of Bayside Bistro, casting a golden glow across his daughter’s expectant face.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. What did you say, Pumpkin? he managed, setting down his fork with a trembling hand. Over there, four-year-old Emma pointed with the directness only children possess.
She looks like Mommy in the pictures. James turned slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. The bustling restaurant seemed to fall silent as his eyes found her, a waitress with honey-blonde hair swept into a loose ponytail, laughing with customers at a nearby table.
The resemblance hit him like a physical blow, the same warm smile that crinkled at the corners of the eyes, the same graceful way she tucked hair behind her ear. Daddy, are you okay? Emma’s small voice broke through his trance. I’m fine, sweetie, he lied, wiping suddenly damp palms on his napkin.
Eat your mac and cheese before it gets cold. But Emma was already waving enthusiastically, trying to catch the waitress’s attention. Before James could stop her, the woman turned, noticed Emma’s excited gestures, and started walking toward their table.
Emma, please? James started, but it was too late. Hi there, the waitress approached with a friendly smile. Can I help you with something? The voice wasn’t Eliza’s, it was slightly deeper, with a hint of a West Coast accent, but the warmth in it was painfully familiar.
James couldn’t speak. You look like my Mommy, Emma announced, rocking happily in her booster seat. The woman’s smile faltered slightly.
Oh, I—I’m sorry, James finally found his voice. My daughter sometimes says things without— The waitress’s eyes suddenly widened as she looked directly at him. James? James Sullivan? Now it was his turn to be surprised.
Do we know each other? It’s Sophia, Sophia Martinez, I was Eliza’s roommate at Berkeley. Her voice softened. How is she? I haven’t talked to her in years.
The question felt like a knife twisting in his chest. James swallowed hard, avoiding Emma’s curious gaze. Emma, why don’t you colour for a bit? He pulled a small colouring book and crayons from his bag, which his daughter accepted with unusual compliance.