At one point, she laughed because Ari kicked while she was singing.
Sarah had saved it on my phone and joked:
“If our little girl inherits your stubbornness, you may need this someday.”
I pressed play.
Sarah’s voice filled the nursery.
Within seconds, Ari stopped crying.
I stood there holding our daughter while listening to the woman who would never get to hold her herself.
“That’s your mommy,” I whispered.
Then I cried until the recording ended.
For the next two years, life became survival.
Diapers.
Work.
Sleepless nights.
Grief.
My mother moved in temporarily to help.
I kept photographs of Sarah throughout the house because I never wanted Ari growing up believing her mother had simply vanished from our story.
When Ari began speaking, she would point toward Sarah’s photographs.
“Who dat?”
“That’s Mommy.”
“She funny?”
“The funniest person I ever knew.”
Sometimes she asked:
“Can Mommy talk?”
And sometimes I played Sarah’s lullaby.
But not often.
I told myself Ari was too young to understand.
The truth was that I was the one who couldn’t handle hearing Sarah’s voice.
Every time that recording played, I lost her again.
By Ari’s second birthday, she had become a quiet, observant little girl.
She wasn’t shy.
