One evening, my husband and I asked our 2.5-year-old daughter a lighthearted question: “How many people live in our house?” We expected her to answer with four—herself, her baby brother, my husband, and me. But to our surprise, she confidently replied, “Five.” At first, we laughed, thinking she was counting the cat. But when she shook her head and pointed toward the empty hallway, we exchanged curious glances.
I gently asked, “Who else, sweetheart?” She whispered back, “The nice lady. She sings to me when I can’t sleep.” Her words lingered in the silence of that moment. We tried not to overthink it, reminding ourselves that young children often create imaginary friends. Still, I couldn’t shake the thought, especially when I later heard her humming a lullaby I recognized from my own childhood.
That particular song was special—it was the same lullaby my late grandmother used to sing to me. My daughter had never met her, and I had never taught her that tune. The connection felt too uncanny to ignore. Whether it was coincidence, memory, or just the creativity of a little mind, it left me deeply moved.
That night, as I tucked her into bed, I realized that family isn’t always measured only by who’s physically present. Love has a way of carrying forward, sometimes in ways we can’t fully explain. And maybe my daughter was right all along—there are five hearts filling our home.