“I know.”
“The eyes are yours.”
“Everything else is punishment.”
Cole smiled.
“Your mom was stubborn.”
“So is Maya.”
“How did she lose her hearing?”
“She was born deaf.”
Cole swallowed.
Aaron continued.
“Doctors said genetic.”
“I figured Mom.”
“You learned sign.”
“Of course.”
Cole looked toward the sleeping child.
“She signs exactly like Hannah.”
Aaron smiled faintly.
“I used Mom’s old videos.”
Cole stared.
“What videos?”
“The tapes.”
Cole’s chest tightened.
Hannah had recorded hundreds of hours of family video because she worried Aaron might forget her voice even though she herself had never heard it.
After her death, Cole could not watch them.
Then Aaron left.
Cole assumed the tapes disappeared with other boxes.
“You have them?”
Aaron nodded.
“Digitized everything.”
“Maya knows her?”
“In a way.”
Cole looked down.
“Thank you.”
Aaron stared.
“For what?”
“For not letting my stupidity erase her too.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
“My wife made that decision.”
Cole looked toward him.
“What was her name?”
“Claire.”
“Tell me.”
Aaron hesitated.
Then he did.
Claire Morgan.
Elementary-school librarian.
Met Aaron when he returned an overdue book two years late because he had moved and found it in a box.
She charged him the late fee.
He argued.
She refused to waive it.
He came back three days later with coffee.
They married two years after that.
Maya arrived three years later.
Claire learned sign before the baby was born even though they did not yet know Maya would be deaf because Aaron wanted his mother’s language to exist in their home.
Cole listened.
Every detail hurt.
Every detail was also a gift.
“What happened?”
“Car accident.”
Cole closed his eyes.
“Three years ago.”
Aaron nodded.
“Drunk driver.”
“Maya in the car?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
Aaron stared toward his daughter.
“I almost called you.”
Cole looked up.
“After Claire?”
“Yeah.”
“What stopped you?”
Aaron laughed softly.
“Same thing that stopped you.”
Cole nodded.
“Pride.”
“Fear too.”
“Of what?”
Aaron’s eyes moved toward him.
“That you’d already decided I was dead to you.”
Cole’s eyes filled.
“Never.”
“You never called.”
“I know.”
“You never looked.”
“I did.”
Aaron stared.
Cole continued.
“For about five years.”
“Private investigator.”