“I didn’t give birth to you, sweetheart. But I was there holding your hands when you took your first steps. I stayed awake at night when you were sick. And every time you called me ‘Mommy,’ I felt like the happiest woman in the world.”
I threw my arms around her.
“You ARE my mother. And you always will be.”
She began sobbing.
But then my father said:
“Emily, there’s one more thing you need to see.”
He led me behind the bench.
There was a small wooden box attached near the trunk of a tree.
Inside was an old voice recorder.
My father pressed the button.
At first, there was a crackling sound.
Then I heard a gentle woman’s voice.
“Robert, if our little girl ever hears this, I want her to know that I loved her even before I held her for the first time…”