One quiet evening, we asked our 2.5-year-old daughter a simple question: “How many people live in our house?” We expected the obvious answer—four: me, my husband, her, and her baby brother. But without hesitation, she said, “Five.”
We laughed at first, thinking she meant the cat. But she shook her head, very serious. “No, Mommy. Daddy. Me. Little brother. And…” She trailed off, pointing toward the empty hallway.
“The nice lady,” she whispered. “She sings to me when I can’t sleep.”
For a moment, the air in the room felt heavy. My husband and I exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond. Kids her age invent imaginary friends all the time. But something in her tone, in the certainty behind her words, felt different.
For days afterward, her comment echoed in my mind. I kept thinking, who is she talking about? And then a memory struck me: my grandmother, who had passed away long before my daughter was born, used to sing the same lullaby that my daughter now hummed at bedtime.
I sat on her bed one night and listened. The melody was unmistakable. My daughter’s little lips moved in perfect rhythm, softly singing, completely unaware of the history behind the tune. A shiver ran through me. Could it be coincidence? Or was it something more—something beyond explanation?
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