March 3,2000
"Waaah!"
"Waaah!"
The cry was loud, raw, and brand new, filling the delivery room with proof that something had survived the pain.
The baby screamed with his whole body, tiny fists clenched, face red and scrunched like the world had already offended him. He was held carefully in the arms of a beautiful woman in her late twenties, her blonde hair pulled back messily, damp with sweat. Her face was pale with exhaustion, eyes rimmed red—not just from labor, but from weeks of barely sleeping, months of stress, and a grief that sat heavy in her chest even now.
She looked down at him.
Her baby.
Her hands trembled just a little as she adjusted her grip, pulling him closer. Relief washed over her first—he was alive, he was breathing, he was here. That relief came with tears, hot and unstoppable, sliding down her cheeks and into her hair.
But the sadness followed right behind it, quiet and sharp.
Her husband should have been here.
He should have been standing awkwardly beside the bed, trying not to pass out. He should have been smiling, laughing nervously, probably crying harder than she was. He should have been the first voice their baby heard besides hers.
But he wasn't.
He never would be.
Her husband had passed in the military months earlier, a name added to a list, a folded flag delivered to her door by solemn strangers in uniform. She had held it together then. She had told everyone she was strong. She had gone back to work, kept her head high, signed papers, answered condolences.
Now, holding their child, the weight of his absence felt unbearable.
"I've got you," she whispered to the baby, her voice breaking. "I've got you."
She would be a single mother.
That truth sat in her mind like a stone, heavy but solid. She knew the logistics already. She was a principal at a local school—steady job, decent pay. She would receive checks from the military for her husband's death. Money wouldn't be easy, but it wouldn't destroy her either.
She wouldn't struggle in the way people pitied.
But money didn't fill a chair at the dinner table.
Money didn't teach a child how to throw a ball.
Money didn't replace a laugh, a voice, a presence.
She missed him dearly.
The nurse approached gently, her movements practiced and calm. "I'll take him for a moment," she said softly.
The woman hesitated, tightening her grip for just a second longer before nodding. The nurse carefully took the baby, swaddling him as his cries slowly softened into hiccupping breaths.
As the baby was carried away, exhaustion finally won.
The woman's eyes fluttered shut.
Sleep took her almost immediately.
When she awoke, the room felt different.
Quieter. Warmer.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then the beeping monitors, the sterile smell, and the ache in her body reminded her.
She had given birth.
She turned her head—and froze.
Her mom, Erica, was there.
Sitting in the chair by the bed, older now, hair streaked with gray, eyes tired from travel but bright with emotion. She looked up the moment her daughter stirred, standing so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Oh, honey," her mom said, rushing forward and carefully wrapping her arms around her. "Oh, you did it, I'm very proud of you, Sasha."
Tears spilled freely then, the kind that came from being held by someone who knew all the versions of you. Someone who had watched you grow up. Someone who remembered your husband, who had mourned him too.
"I flew in from Idaho as soon as I could," her mom said, brushing her hair back. "I wasn't missing this. Not for anything."
Behind her stood her younger sister Melanie, hovering awkwardly near the doorframe. She gave a small smile, eyes red and glossy.
"He's cute," her sister said quietly. "Really cute."
The woman laughed softly, a sound halfway between joy and disbelief. "You haven't even seen him yet."
As if on cue, the nurse returned, carrying the baby.
"Someone's ready to meet his family," she said, smiling.
The baby was placed gently back into his mother's arms. This time, he didn't cry. His eyes were closed, his breathing soft and even, his tiny chest rising and falling like he trusted the world already.
Her mom leaned in close, awe written across her face. "Oh my God," she whispered. "He looks like his father."
The words hit harder than expected.
But she smiled anyway.
"He does," she said. "I see it too."
She looked down at her son, studying every detail. The curve of his nose. The shape of his mouth. The way his fingers curled instinctively around her own.
She had chosen his name long before this moment.
"I named him Josiah," she said softly.
Her mom repeated it, testing the sound. "Josiah."
Her sister nodded. "Josiah Valentine."
The name felt right when she said it aloud. Solid. Gentle. Strong. A name that could belong to a boy, a man, someone who would grow into himself over time.
Josiah Valentine.
She kissed his forehead, careful and reverent.
"Welcome to life," she whispered.
Time passed.
Five years, quietly and quickly, the way time always does when no one is looking.
Josiah Valentine was five years old now.
The morning sun spilled through the living room window as the TV played colorful cartoons, voices loud and cheerful. Josiah sat cross-legged on the carpet, eyes glued to the screen, singing along with complete confidence.
"🎵 Can we fix it? Bob the Builder! 🎵"
"🎵 Yes we can! 🎵"
"🎵 Can we fix it? Bob the Builder! 🎵"
"🎵 Yes we can! 🎵"
His voice was high, sweet, and clear. Not perfect—but not bad either. He sang without thinking about it, without hesitation or fear, like the sound simply belonged in the room.
His mom stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him with a soft smile. She leaned against the frame, coffee mug warming her hands.
"You have a nice voice, honey," she said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Josiah beamed.
"Thanks, Mommy," he said sweetly, still half-singing the last line before the cartoon cut to commercials.
He jumped to his feet and ran toward the couch where his small backpack waited. It was blue, a little too big for him, with a cartoon dinosaur stitched on the front. He struggled for a second, one arm caught in the strap, before his mom stepped in and helped him.
"Got it," she said, lifting it onto his shoulders and adjusting the straps. "Kindergarten ready?"
Josiah nodded eagerly. "I'm not scared."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "You're not?"
"Nope!" He grinned up at her. "I'm brave."
She laughed softly and crouched down to his level, smoothing his hair. He had her husband's eyes. That never stopped hitting her when she looked closely.
"I know you are," she said.
They walked out to the car together, morning air crisp and clean. Josiah climbed into his booster seat like he'd done a thousand times before, kicking his legs excitedly as she buckled him in.
"Do you think they'll like me?" he asked suddenly, staring out the window.
She paused for half a second before closing the door. Not long enough for him to notice.
"I think they'd be silly not to," she said, climbing into the driver's seat. "Just be yourself."
He nodded seriously, as if committing that advice to memory.
The drive to the school was short. It was the same school she worked at—something that brought her comfort and worry in equal measure. Being both mom and principal meant she'd see him every day. It also meant she couldn't hover the way part of her wanted to.
The parking lot buzzed with noise. Parents. Kids. Teachers directing traffic and greeting families. Josiah pressed his face against the window, eyes wide.
"That's a lot of people," he whispered.
"It is," she said. "But you'll be okay."
They walked hand in hand toward the building. Josiah's grip tightened slightly as they entered, the sounds growing louder—laughter, crying, footsteps echoing down the halls.
A teacher knelt down near the classroom door, smiling warmly. "You must be Josiah."
Josiah nodded.
"I'm Mrs. Thompson," she said. "I'm so happy you're here."
He looked up at his mom.
She squeezed his hand once, then let go. "I'll see you after school, okay?"
"Okay," he said, voice small but steady.
He followed Mrs. Thompson into the classroom without looking back.
Josiah adjusted quickly.
He colored. He listened. He shared crayons even when he didn't want to. During circle time, he hummed softly to himself without realizing it, tapping his fingers against his knees in rhythm with nothing anyone else could hear.
At recess, he sat on the swings and sang under his breath, making up words as he went.
Nobody told him to stop.
When school ended, he ran straight into his mom's arms.
"I had fun," he announced proudly.
"I knew you would," she said, kissing the top of his head.
That night, as she tucked him into bed, Josiah stared at the ceiling.
"Mommy?" he asked.
"Yes, baby?"
"Can I sing tomorrow too?"
She smiled in the dim light. "You can sing whenever you want."
He closed his eyes, comforted by that answer.
As he drifted off to sleep, a soft melody escaped his lips—quiet, unpracticed, and natural.
The world listened.