Chapter 5 - The Video for the Daughter He Never Met
Mark sat in the unfinished nursery on the television screen.
The crib was behind him.
One side rail was still missing.
He wore the blue sweater I had eventually thrown away because I could no longer stand seeing it hanging in our closet.
Except now there it was again.
On him.
Alive.
Moving.
He rubbed his palms together.
“Hi, Peanut.”
A small smile.
“I’m told I’m not supposed to call you that forever.”
He leaned closer.
“Your mother is very controlling.”
I laughed.
He continued.
“Your actual name is Grace. We picked it last week. Your mom thinks we picked it because it sounds beautiful. I picked it because it’s easy to yell across a playground.”
I whispered, “Liar.”
His smile faded gradually.
“Grace, I don’t know how old you’ll be when you watch this.”
He looked down.
“I hope your mom waits.”
I wiped my face.
“She probably won’t because she’s terrible at keeping gifts hidden.”
I laughed again.
Mark took a slow breath.
“I’m making this because there’s a chance I won’t get to meet you.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“I hate saying that.”
He paused.
His eyes filled but he blinked the tears back.
“I have spent months thinking about all the things I wanted to teach you.”
He held up one finger.
“Number one: never buy cheap trash bags.”
I covered my mouth, laughing.
“Number two: always be nice to animals. They remember.”
Another finger.
“Number three: your mother will tell you she doesn’t snore.”
He leaned toward the camera.
“She does.”
I shouted toward the kitchen, “Don’t listen to him!”
Mom called back, “I heard that!”
Then Mark became serious.
“And number four…”
He looked straight into the camera.
“Never confuse someone being gone with someone not wanting to stay.”
My laughter disappeared.
“I wanted to stay.”
He swallowed.
“I wanted first steps.”
“First words.”
“Bad school concerts.”
“Driving lessons.”
“Whatever terrible person you date at sixteen.”
I whispered, “Mark…”
“I wanted all of it.”
His voice broke.
“But sometimes wanting time doesn’t create more of it.”
I folded over my stomach.
Grace shifted inside me.
Mark continued.
“So I made boxes.”
He smiled.
“Too many boxes.”
I thought of Harbor Street.
“I made recordings too. Some your mom doesn’t know about yet.”
I sat upright.
“You hid more?”
Mark’s recorded face looked almost mischievous.
“Nathan knows where they are.”
“Of course Nathan does.”
“I made one for birthdays. One for when you’re angry at me even though I’m not there. That one felt important.”
He laughed softly.
“And one for the day you ask your mom whether I loved her.”
His face changed.
“That one is very short.”
He looked off-camera for a second.
“I did.”
Then back at us.
“I loved her more than I knew how to make useful.”
My tears returned.
“She is going to think she has to be both parents.”
I went still.
“Don’t let her.”
His voice softened.
“If you’re old enough to understand this, remind her that she is allowed to be one person.”
That felt painfully intimate.
Mark knew exactly what I would do.
Try to compensate.
Try to become everything Grace had lost.
“I’m leaving this video partly for you and partly for her.”
He pointed toward the camera.
“Sally, yes, I know you’re watching.”
I shook my head.
“Stop.”
“If Grace is five, stop crying in front of the television. You’re scaring her.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Then he leaned back.
“There’s something else I arranged.”
My body tensed.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Everything you do is dramatic now,” I said.
“If you’re watching this before Grace is born, Nathan will explain.”
I grabbed my phone.
“What?”
Mark continued.
“I asked the hospital whether I could leave an audio message for the delivery room.”
I stopped breathing.
“If they allow it, there’s a recording for the day she arrives.”
My hand covered my mouth.
“I know that sounds strange.”
No.
It didn’t.
It sounded like him.
“I don’t want to replace the people who’ll actually be there.”
His expression became serious.
“Let your mother help. Let Sally’s mom help. Let nurses help. Let everyone help.”
He looked straight at the camera.
“But I wanted Grace to hear my voice on the day she enters the world.”
My daughter kicked hard.
I gasped.
Mark smiled on-screen as though responding.
“I also wanted Sally to hear something.”
He paused.
“Sal, when that day comes, don’t look backward the whole time.”
My tears fell.
“You’re not betraying me by being happy when she arrives.”
I closed my eyes.
“You’re not leaving me behind by loving the life that comes after me.”
I sobbed.
“You gave me the happiest three years of my life.”
He smiled.
“And one incredibly overpriced wedding.”
I laughed.
“Please let her arrival be joy.”
His face blurred.
“Not just grief.”
The video continued for another few minutes.
Mark told Grace about our first date.
About the time I backed into a mailbox and blamed the mailbox.
About the way I danced while cooking when I thought no one was watching.
Then his voice grew weak.
He knew it.
“So.”
He exhaled slowly.
“I think that’s enough.”
He looked toward the crib.
“I hope your mom finished that thing.”
“I did,” I whispered.
“I hope the room is green.”
“It is.”
“And I hope you know…”
He stared into the camera.
“…I was your dad.”
Not would have been.
Was.
“I didn’t get the years.”
His eyes filled.
“But I got to love you.”
The screen went dark.
I sat there for a long time.
Then Mom came into the room.
She didn’t ask questions.
She simply sat beside me.
I leaned against her shoulder.
An hour later, another contraction came.
This time stronger.
Mom looked at the clock.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“How long since the last?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sally.”
“I’m not in labor.”
“Your body did not sign that agreement.”
I laughed weakly.
Over the next two hours, the contractions remained irregular.
Nathan advised us by phone to come in if they became consistent or if anything felt wrong.
They eventually stopped.
False alarm.
But something changed after that night.
Until then, childbirth had been an idea.
Now it felt close.
Very close.
The next morning, I returned to the storage unit.
I wanted one box.
For When She Asks Why Her Dad Isn’t Here.
I almost opened it.
Instead, I held it.
“You wanted to stay,” I whispered.
That was enough for now.
Nathan called that afternoon.
“I watched the video.”
“I assumed.”
“He said there’s an audio recording.”
“There is.”
“Is that allowed?”
“We worked it out.”
“How?”
“Mark recorded something. The hospital approved keeping the file in your chart notes as a personal request, but it’s entirely your choice whether to use it.”
I sat down.
“What does he say?”
“I haven’t listened.”
“Really?”
“He told me not to.”
That made me smile.
“Of course.”
Nathan paused.
“There’s something else.”
“Nathan, I’m developing an allergy to that sentence.”
He laughed quietly.
“This isn’t another secret. We received preliminary information from the donation team.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“They were able to honor part of Mark’s wishes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What does that mean?”
Nathan spoke carefully, avoiding details I had not asked for.
“It means his decision helped other people.”
“How many?”
“We don’t have everything finalized.”
“Did it matter?”
“Yes.”
That one word was enough.
Mark had done it.
He had given someone time.
That night I slept for six uninterrupted hours for the first time since he died.
Three days later, at 4:17 in the morning, I woke with a contraction that felt nothing like the others.
I sat upright.
Waited.
Seven minutes later, another came.
Then six.
I called my mother.
She answered immediately.
“Sally?”
“I think it’s happening.”
Twenty minutes later, we were driving through dark streets toward the same hospital where Mark had died.
I sat in the passenger seat with both hands over my stomach.
The city lights blurred through tears.
Mom glanced at me.
“Scared?”
“Yes.”
“Excited?”
“Yes.”
“Sad?”
I looked toward the hospital building rising ahead of us.
“Yes.”
All three emotions existed at once.
As we pulled into the entrance, I remembered Mark’s video.
Don’t look backward the whole time.
The hospital doors opened.
A nurse brought a wheelchair.
I refused it.
Then another contraction hit and I changed my mind.
As they rolled me down the corridor, I saw the exact place where Nathan had chased me with the envelope.
For a second, I could barely breathe.
Then Grace moved.
Forward.
I heard Mark’s voice in my memory.
Please let her arrival be joy.
Hours later, exhausted and shaking, I heard a nurse ask me one question.
“Sally, do you still want us to play Mark’s recording when it’s time?”
I looked at my mother.
Then at Nathan, who had stopped by briefly.
Then down at my stomach.
May you like
“Yes.”
And just before the final stretch began, the room filled with my dead husband’s voice.
