We asked our 2.5-year-old daughter a simple question one evening: “How many people live in our house?” We expected her to say four—me, my husband, her, and her baby brother. Instead, without hesitation, she said, “Five.”We laughed at first, assuming she meant the cat. But she shook her head firmly. “No. Mommy. Daddy. Me. Little brother. And…”
Her voice trailed off, and she pointed toward the hallway. A hallway that was completely empty. My husband and I exchanged uneasy glances. “Who, sweetheart?” I asked gently, trying to steady my voice.“The nice lady,” she whispered. “She sings to me when I can’t sleep.”
The room grew still, her words sinking into the quiet. For days, they echoed in my mind. Was it just imagination? Children often create invisible friends. Yet one night, I caught her softly humming a lullaby she could never have known—the very same song my late grandmother used to sing to me when I was her age.
I don’t know if it was coincidence, memory carried through blood, or something greater than what we can explain. But as I tucked her in that night, I understood something: the bonds of love don’t end with absence. They linger, they protect, and sometimes they return in ways we least expect.And maybe, just maybe, she was right. There are five of us in this house.