Work Text:
Narrated by Lucy
I hadn’t sung that song in years.
For a long time, I avoided even hearing the first notes. All it took was someone humming something similar for my chest to tighten before I even understood why.
It’s strange how the brain stores memories inside sound.
Liv didn’t know that, of course. To her, it was just a soft melody that made her rub her sleepy eyes and reach for my arms at the end of the day.
But that night… everything began differently.
“She only wants you,” Tim said, leaning against the nursery doorway, watching as I paced back and forth with our daughter in my arms.
Olivia was restless. She had already eaten, already had her diaper changed, already been rocked by her dad—which usually solved everything. But not this time.
The room was lit only by the warm yellow glow of a lamp. The mobile turned slowly above the crib, casting gentle shadows across the walls.
“I think she’s overtired,” I murmured.
The baby fussed against my shoulder, tiny fingers gripping the collar of my T-shirt.
Tim approached slowly, placing a hand on my back.
“You sing to her sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sing now.”
I shook my head almost automatically.
“No… not that one.”
He looked at me in that calm, attentive way he had—the way he used when he understood something before I was ready to admit it.
“The song…” he said softly. “That one?”
I nodded.
For years, that melody had meant survival. Fear. Darkness. The sound of my own voice trying to keep me conscious.
I had never been able to separate the two.
Tim didn’t push. He just stayed there beside me.
“Lucy,” he said after a few seconds, “you didn’t sing that song because of what happened. You sang it because you wanted to live.”
I swallowed hard.
“It doesn’t feel like the same thing.”
“It does to me.” He gave a small smile. “It’s the song that brought you back.”
Liv let out a soft, impatient whimper.
Tim touched her tiny foot.
“Maybe it’s time for it to have a new meaning.”
I stayed silent.
The room felt suspended in time. Just the sound of her breathing, the faint creak of the floor, and my heart beating too fast in my chest.
I took a deep breath.
And began.
“Stars shining bright above you”
My voice came out soft, hesitant at first, almost a whisper. The melody returned automatically, as if it had never left—familiar, gentle, wrapping around us.
But something was different.
There was no cold. No darkness.
Only the warm weight of my daughter in my arms.
“Say ‘nighty-night’ and kiss me”
Olivia slowly relaxed. First her shoulders. Then her tiny hands released my shirt. Her breathing became slow and steady.
I kept singing.
“Dream a little dream of me.”
And for the first time, my mind didn’t return to that place.
It returned to Tim.
To our home.
To the little girl in my arms.
To laughter echoing in the living room, toys scattered everywhere, early morning coffee, sleepless and happy nights.
When I finished, Liv was already deeply asleep.
I stood there, watching her, surprised by the calm I felt.
Tim spoke softly behind me.
“See?”
I placed the baby carefully in the crib. She didn’t even stir.
“I thought I’d never be able to sing it without remembering…”
He took my hand.
“You remembered. You just remember the ending now.”
I looked at our daughter sleeping, her chest rising and falling slowly.
The same song.
But it wasn’t about surviving anymore.
It was about coming home.
I rested my head against his shoulder.
“I think it’s her song now.”
Tim smiled.
“No.” He kissed my forehead. “It’s the song of both of you.”
That night, when I turned off the nursery light, I realized something I never thought I would feel:
That melody no longer held me in the past.
It cradled the future.
And ever since then, every night when Olivia asks for “Mommy’s song,” I sing.
Not to keep myself awake.
But to help her dream.