My whole family was happy when my father remarried at sixty to a woman thirty years younger—but on their wedding night, a strange scream echoed from the bedroom, and what I saw left me speechless.
My father’s name is Antônio Ferreira. This spring, he turned sixty. My mother passed away when my sister and I were still in college. For more than twenty years, my father lived alone—no dating, no second chances—just work, Sunday mass, and his small garden in Belo Horizonte. Our relatives always told him, “Antônio, you’re still strong and healthy. A man shouldn’t live alone forever.” He would smile calmly and reply, “When my daughters are settled, then I’ll think about myself.”
And he meant it. When my sister got married and I secured a stable job in São Paulo, he finally allowed himself to think about his own life.
One November night, he called us with a tone I hadn’t heard in years—warm, hopeful, almost shy. “I’ve met someone,” he said. “Her name is Larissa.”
My sister and I were shocked. Larissa was thirty—half my father’s age. She worked as an accountant at a local insurance company, was divorced, and had no children. They met at a senior yoga class at the community center. At first, we were suspicious. We worried she might be taking advantage of him. But when we met her—kind, polite, soft-spoken—we noticed the way she looked at my father, and the way he looked at her. It wasn’t pity. It was peace.
The wedding was small and simple, held in the backyard of our old family home under a large mango tree decorated with tiny lights. There was roast chicken, soft drinks, laughter, and a few tears. Larissa wore a light pink dress, her hair pinned up, her eyes full of tenderness. My father looked nervous but deeply happy, like a young man in love for the first time.
As the night ended and everyone helped clean up, my sister joked, “Dad, try not to make any noise tonight, okay? The walls are thin.” He laughed and replied, “Go mind your own business.” Then he took Larissa’s hand and led her into the master bedroom—the same room he had shared with my mother for more than thirty years. We had suggested redecorating it before the wedding, but he refused. “Leaving it as it is brings me peace,” he said.
Around midnight, I woke to a sound. At first, I thought it was the wind, or maybe a cat outside. Then I heard it—a sharp, terrifying scream. My sister and I jumped out of bed and ran toward my father’s room. From behind the door, we heard Larissa’s trembling voice: “No… please… don’t do that!”
I pushed the door open.
My father was standing beside the bed, frozen, his face pale and confused. Larissa was sitting on the edge of the mattress, wrapped tightly in the bedsheet, shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes were wide with fear—not of my father, but of the room.
“Larissa, what happened?” I asked.
She raised her hand and pointed toward the wardrobe near the window. “The mirror,” she whispered. “I saw the mirror.”
We all looked at it. It was the same tall mirror that had always been there. Nothing appeared unusual.
“My father touched my shoulder,” she said, her voice breaking, “and when I looked up, I saw another woman standing behind him. An older woman. She was watching us.”
The room fell silent.
My father slowly sat down beside her and said softly, “Larissa, there’s no one else here.”
She shook her head. “I know what I saw. She was wearing white. She looked sad. Not angry. Just watching.”
My sister turned pale. I felt a chill run through me.
Then my father spoke again, his voice low and emotional. “The mirror,” he said quietly. “Your mother.”
He explained that after my mother passed away, he sometimes saw her reflection in that mirror, especially during the early years of his grief. He never told anyone, believing it was his mind struggling with loss. Over time, the visions stopped—or so he thought.
Larissa cried softly. “I didn’t mean to scream,” she said. “I just felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. Like I was intruding on something sacred.”
My father held her hands and said, “You’re not intruding. My past is part of me, but it doesn’t take away from what we’re building now.”
None of us slept that night.
The next morning, my father made a decision. He had the bedroom repainted, the old furniture replaced, and the mirror removed. Not out of fear, but out of understanding.
“You can honor the past,” he told us, “without living inside it.”
Larissa stayed. Months have passed since that night. Their marriage didn’t break—it grew stronger. My father still visits my mother’s grave every Sunday. He still tends his garden. But now, he laughs more. He lives more.
And Larissa never screamed again.
Sometimes, when I visit the house in the evening and see the mango tree lights gently flickering, I feel a quiet sense of calm—like someone is watching over them.
Not in anger.
But in peace.
