She Visited Me Every Night

I remember that day as if it were carved into my memory.
The day a quiet little boy with dark eyes and a secondhand jacket walked into our lives — and somehow, into the space our grief had left behind.

His name was Matías. Five years old. Thin as a reed.
When the social worker placed his small hand in mine and Laura’s, I felt the faint tremor of a child who had learned to expect nothing. He didn’t look up; he just stared at the floor tiles as if afraid that, if he met our eyes, this new life would disappear.

We had visited him every Sunday for three months before the adoption went through. He was shy, cautious, polite. Hardly ever spoke.
But the first time I saw him, something in me stirred — something I hadn’t felt since we lost Emma.

When we reached the house that day, Laura squeezed my hand.
It was the same house we had built for a family of three, but for the last two years, it had been a museum of silence.
The laughter, the footsteps, the bedtime songs — all gone.
Only the memories remained, packed away like fragile glass.

I pushed the door open.
“Welcome home, champ,” I said softly.

Matías didn’t answer. He just looked around, eyes wide. The late-afternoon sun spilled across the wooden floor. He stepped inside slowly, touching the edge of the couch, the corner of the table, the small wooden horse Emma used to ride that we hadn’t yet had the heart to give away.

Laura crouched beside him.
“What do you think?” she asked gently. “Do you like it here?”

He nodded, a small, hesitant gesture. His fingers tightened around hers.
Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, he walked toward the staircase.

That was when it happened.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the wall above the stairs — right where Emma’s portrait hung.
It was the last picture we’d taken of her: her eighth birthday, in the white dress she’d begged Laura to buy, with her hair braided and a crown of gardenias on her head. She was smiling that pure, mischievous smile that could light up any room.

Matías stared at it, unmoving. For a moment, I thought he was simply curious. But then his lips parted.
“She…” he whispered.

It was the first word we’d heard him speak unprompted.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” Laura asked, approaching him carefully.

Matías pointed at the portrait with his small finger.
“She visited me every night,” he said matter-of-factly.

The air left the room.

Laura froze, her face draining of color. I felt my stomach twist.

“Visited you?” I repeated, trying to sound calm. “What do you mean, Matías? Do you… do you know her?”

He didn’t look at us. He just kept staring at the portrait — and then he smiled. A soft, peaceful smile that didn’t belong on a child who had known so much loneliness.

“She came to my bed at the home,” he said quietly. “When I was scared. When the other kids were mean. She sat beside me and sang songs.”

My throat tightened.
Laura was trembling beside me, tears already running down her cheeks.

“She told me I didn’t have to be afraid anymore,” Matías went on. “That soon, her mom and dad were going to come for me. That I just had to wait a little longer.”

I felt my knees weaken.
That white dress. The gardenias. The words — mom and dad.

I swallowed hard. “Did she… did she tell you her name?”

Matías turned to us then, eyes glowing softly in the afternoon light.
“Yes,” he said simply. “She said her name was Emma. She told me to tell you not to be sad anymore. That she’s happy now. That she’s with you again.”

Laura let out a strangled sob and fell to her knees. I knelt beside her, my hands shaking, my mind a whirlpool of disbelief and aching hope.

“She was your daughter, wasn’t she?” Matías asked.

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.

He stepped closer, and with a tenderness beyond his years, reached out to wipe the tears from Laura’s face.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “She said she’s happy. She said she can rest now because you found me.”

That night, after dinner, we showed Matías to his room — Emma’s room.
The toys, the curtains with stars, the shelf of storybooks. Everything had remained untouched.
I had thought it would be too painful for him, but instead, he walked in as if he knew it already.

“She liked to sit there,” he said, pointing to the little window seat. “She told me about this place.”

Laura and I exchanged a look, and this time there was no fear, only awe.

When I tucked him in, he smiled up at me.
“She came again,” he whispered, eyes half-closed. “She said she can sleep now. She wanted me to tell you thank you.”

I sat on the edge of the bed long after he fell asleep, the sound of his breathing steady and soft. The same way I used to listen to Emma.
And for the first time in two years, I cried — not from grief, but from something like peace.

Over the next weeks, life in the house began to change.

Matías filled the rooms with laughter again. He followed Laura to the kitchen, helped me in the garden, drew pictures for the fridge.
But sometimes, at night, I’d hear him whisper softly before sleeping — and I knew he was talking to her.

One morning, I asked him what he said when he talked to Emma.

“She listens,” he told me. “She doesn’t talk much now, but she smiles. She likes when we’re happy. She says the flowers smell like heaven.”

Gardenias.
Laura had planted them outside Emma’s window after the funeral. They bloomed every spring, white and pure.

Months passed. Matías grew stronger, brighter, bolder.
Laura laughed again. I started to sleep through the night.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I found Matías sitting by the gardenias.
“She’s not coming anymore,” he said quietly.

I felt a pang of worry. “What do you mean?”

He smiled faintly. “She said she’s done what she had to do. That she’ll always watch, but from far away now.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “And are you okay with that?”

He nodded. “I’m not scared anymore. Because now I have you.”

That night, when the house was quiet, I walked into his room — her room — and sat in the dark.

“Thank you, Princess,” I whispered into the still air. “Thank you for taking care of him when we couldn’t. We’ll take care of him now. We promise.”

And maybe it was just the moonlight, or maybe something more — but I could have sworn I felt a warm hand brush my shoulder, like a small girl saying goodbye.

Epilogue

It’s been eight years since that day. Matías is thirteen now — curious, gentle, always humming the same lullaby that Emma used to love.

Sometimes I catch him standing under her portrait, smiling.

He doesn’t talk about seeing her anymore. But every year, on her birthday, he puts a single gardenia on the windowsill and whispers:
“Thank you, Emma.”

And I smile, because I know she’s still here — not as a ghost, but as a light that never went out.

She didn’t leave us empty. She led us to him.
And in doing so, she gave us back what grief had stolen:
a family.