One evening, walking home worried about bills, I heard a lullaby I hadn’t heard in 17 years—the one I wrote for my daughter Lily before she vanished. The voice singing it belonged to a young woman in the square. Her smile, her dimple, her eyes… they reminded me of my little girl. I approached, and she told me it was the only memory she had from childhood. She’d been adopted at five, told her real parents died in a crash, but always felt something was missing.
We went for coffee. She revealed her name used to be Lily. Her birth mother? Cynthia. My wife. My heart knew before my mind did. I told her I was John—her father. We cried, embraced, and I brought her home to meet Cynthia. When Cynthia opened the door and saw her, she collapsed into Lily’s arms. After a DNA test confirmed the truth, Lily moved in. Our home, once quiet with grief, now overflowed with joy. That night, a forgotten song gave us back our daughter—and healed our hearts.
