“May’s Lullaby.”
When William came home angry and exhausted, he heard singing.
His wife’s song.
He ran.
Burst into the playroom.
Helen sat on the floor, guitar in her lap. The children were close—closer than they’d been in a year.
“STOP!” William shouted.
The children recoiled.
He lunged for the guitar—
“Don’t.”
The sound was barely there.
William froze.
It was May.
She stood trembling, eyes blazing.
“Don’t… hurt… her.”
Something shattered.
William collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. Evan stared in shock.
Helen began humming again—softly.
May crawled into her lap. Evan rested his head against her knee.
Lucy hesitated… then went to her father, placing her hand on his shoulder.
William broke completely.
Healing wasn’t instant. The children didn’t suddenly speak.
But the silence cracked.
William asked Helen quietly, “What do I do?”
“You listen,” she said.
The next day, he sat on the floor with them. After a long while, Evan slid a blue block toward him.
William took it.
The house remained quiet—but it lived again. Music returned. Breath returned.
And slowly, so did hope.
