Part Three: The Sound of Laughter
Life with Ava quickly found its own rhythm.
She woke every three hours and refused to drink a bottle unless it was perfectly warm. She loved being rocked beside the front window, where she could watch birds gather in the maple tree.
Sometimes she stared at them so seriously that I found myself wondering what she thought they were discussing.
On the third day, my neighbor Helen arrived carrying two bags filled with diapers, wipes, formula, and baby clothes.
“I heard what happened,” she said, pushing the bags into my hands before I could object. “You can’t care for a baby without supplies.”
“This is far too much.”
“Nonsense. People always say it takes a village. We might as well prove it.”
She was right.
Over the next few days, Maple Street changed.
Someone left a container of formula on the porch. Another neighbor brought over a baby swing. A young couple from farther down the street delivered several clean blankets their daughter had outgrown.
People I had known only well enough to wave at suddenly became part of Ava’s little world.
Every evening, I called Dana.
Every evening, she gave me the same answer.
“There’s still no sign of Sabrina.”
I tried not to imagine the worst.
Instead, I focused on Ava.
“We should warm your bottle.”
“Let’s see whether the birds are visiting.”
“You’re rubbing your eyes. I think someone needs a nap.”
Without noticing when it happened, I stopped calling her “the baby.”
She was simply Ava.
She smiled whenever I entered the room. If I walked into the kitchen, she twisted around in her seat, searching until she found me again.
The moment our eyes met, her entire face brightened.
That smile frightened me.
It mattered too much.
One afternoon, I sneezed while changing her diaper. Ava stared at me for half a second before releasing a tiny burst of laughter.
I sneezed again on purpose.
She laughed harder.
Soon I was laughing too.
The sound traveled through the house, filling rooms that had been silent for years.
Until that moment, I had not understood how lonely my home had become.
Later that afternoon, I noticed a loose stitch in the corner of Ava’s yellow blanket.
I found my old sewing basket and selected a strand of matching yarn. As I repaired the small gap, an uncomfortable familiarity settled over me.
I knew the pattern.
Not merely a similar design.
This exact pattern.
I turned the blanket over, studying each row of stitches.
A memory hovered somewhere beyond my reach, soft and blurred like an image seen through fog.
I could not grasp it.
Finally, I folded the blanket around Ava again.
“Someone loved you enough to make sure this stayed with you,” I whispered.
I had no idea how close I was to the truth.
By the ninth day, Ava reached for me whenever I came near.
Each time her little arms lifted, something inside me opened.
Long ago, I had promised myself that I would never again love a child deeply enough to be destroyed when they were taken away.
But that promise was already breaking.
It disappeared with every bottle I warmed, every nap I watched over, and every sleepy smile Ava gave me.
