I Paid for a Poor Mans Groceries – and Noticed He Was a Carbon Copy of My Late Husband!

Then he stood.

And my heart stopped.

The jaw. The eyes. The posture. Even the way his lips pressed together when listening. It was Edward. Not just similar, not a memory—it was him.

I told myself it was shock, loneliness, a trick of grief. But then he turned fully toward the light, and I saw it—the small birthmark above his lip. The one I had kissed for decades. The one I would recognize anywhere.

I should have walked away. Instead, I followed.

I trailed them through the aisles, pretending to shop, watching how he spoke to his children, how they instinctively leaned toward him. At the checkout, the cashier tallied the bill: milk, pasta, cereal. Nothing extravagant.

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