My hands shook. “Do you remember anything else? Maybe your real name?”
She hesitated, then whispered, “I think… it was Lily.”
A surge of emotion overtook me. “My daughter’s name was Lily. She disappeared 17 years ago. My wife’s name is Cynthia.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “My mother’s name… it was Cynthia. And my father… are you John?”
Barely able to speak, I whispered, “Yes. I’m John.”
In silence, we embraced, letting years of grief and hope melt into tears. Finally, she whispered, “Dad?” and I replied, “Yes, Lily. It’s me.”
I called a taxi to take us home. On the way, I asked her to wait by the door so I could prepare Cynthia. Seeing my face, Cynthia sensed something was wrong.
“What happened?” she asked, concern in her eyes.
“Cynthia… I found her. I found our Lily.”
Before I could finish, she rushed to the door. When she saw Lily, she let out a sob, holding her as if to reclaim all the lost years.
Later, we sat together, sharing stories of the life we’d missed. Lily told us about her journey, and we shared our search, our hope that had never faded.
Finally, Cynthia asked, “Lily, would you consider a DNA test, just to be sure?”
Lily nodded. “I’d like that, too.”
A week later, the DNA test confirmed what our hearts already knew: Lily was our daughter. Our home filled with laughter, tears, and stories of the life we’d thought was lost. Lily moved in temporarily, and each day felt like a miracle.
I’ll never forget that evening, when a lullaby brought our family back together, returning something we thought was lost forever.