My Wife Died in a Plane Crash 23 Years Ago – If Only I’d Known It Wouldn’t Be Our Last Meeting
It’s been 23 years since the plane went down. Twenty-three years since I got the call that shattered my world. My wife, Laura, was on that flight—a quick business trip she almost didn’t take. I still remember our rushed goodbye that morning, her smile as she promised to be back by the weekend. But she never came home.
The grief was suffocating. I moved through life like a ghost, raising our daughter alone, haunted by memories and what-ifs. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened last year.
I was visiting a small town in South America for work when I saw her. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But there she was—standing in a market, older, thinner, but unmistakably Laura.
I approached, heart pounding, but her eyes met mine with no flicker of recognition. She spoke softly, in a language I didn’t understand, and when I called her name, she flinched like it was foreign.
After days of searching, I learned the truth. Laura had survived the crash but suffered traumatic memory loss. Rescued by villagers, she started a new life, unaware of the one she’d left behind.
I tried to bring her home, but Laura—this Laura—didn’t know me. She had a life there now, friends, even a new family. I had to make the hardest decision of my life: to let her stay, happy in the world she knew.
I visit sometimes, from a distance. And while she may not remember me, I’ll always remember us. I lost my wife 23 years ago, but in a way, I found her too.
